


The Only One I Still Know How to See

by Furuba_Fangirl



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Anal Sex, Aziraphale is Not Innocent (Good Omens), Bottom Aziraphale (Good Omens), Come Eating, Crowley Has PTSD (Good Omens), Crowley Has Self-Esteem Issues (Good Omens), Crowley Has a Praise Kink (Good Omens), Crowley is Good With Kids (Good Omens), Dirty Talk, Dorks in Love, Explicit Sexual Content, Fan!Aziraphale, First Kiss, First Time, Fluff and Smut, Friends to Lovers, Happy Ending, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Light Angst, Love Confessions, M/M, Madame Tracy and Anathema are the best wing women, Mutual Pining, Oral Sex, Rimming, Service Top Crowley (Good Omens), Specifically Aziraphale's Kink is Crowley's Voice, Tender Sex, Thespian!Crowley, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, Voice Kink, but he's still a gentleman obvs, not 6000 years worth tho, slowish burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-11
Updated: 2020-02-09
Packaged: 2020-10-14 08:23:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 37,259
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20597690
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Furuba_Fangirl/pseuds/Furuba_Fangirl
Summary: Aziraphale has been an admirer of Anthony J. Crowley for years. However, the gap between audience member and stage actor begins to thin when they are given the chance to officially meet.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into 中文-普通话 國語 available: [【授权翻译】我唯一所知如何去看的人](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23902876) by [lynnlovego](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lynnlovego/pseuds/lynnlovego)

> Decided to make this AU cause I have no self-control with Ineffable Husbands XD. The fic title is from the song Only Us from Dear Evan Hansen
> 
> Trigger Warning: There's a play scene that implies sexual assault but the only thing that is detailed is the aftermath

Aziraphale Felton remembers the first time he saw a performance by Anthony J. Crowley.

His dear friend, Tracy, had invited him to go see Hamlet at the Globe Theatre in the stead of her fiancé, who was not shy about expressing his disinterest in the theater arts. So, the bookshop keeper happily agreed to join her that fateful spring evening. Although he had gone to watch many productions of Hamlet before, considering it was his favorite Shakespearean play, nothing could’ve prepared him for this particular rendition.

The bibliophile wasn’t prepared for the sight of scorched tresses and amber eyes as Hamlet stepped onto the stage. He wasn’t prepared for his confident stride across the wooden floor as if Shakespeare himself directed it to be. He definitely wasn’t prepared for the eloquence of his speech, velvety as decadent chocolate mousse.

He recalls how awestruck he felt as his lines were flawlessly delivered. “[To be or not to be...](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xYZHb2xo0OI) that is the question. Whether ’tis nobler in the mind to suffer the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune. Or to take arms against a sea of troubles, and by opposing end them? To die... to sleep...” Every word and pause of breath was laced with such melancholy it was as if Aziraphale was hearing that soliloquy for the first time...

To say he was smitten was an understatement. He was completely enchanted... as if no one else onstage existed in his presence. If demons were real, surely that auburn-haired fiend must be one if he could captivate him with the mere inflections of his voice.

After that, Aziraphale never missed the opportunity to watch Mr. Crowley’s grace the stage again. Throughout the years, he would scour the newspaper for his name in upcoming shows and every few months or so, he found himself in the same space as that enthralling man. At times, the shop keeper felt childish at his behavior, as if he was a teenage groupie obsessed with their favorite rock star.

However, with every play he caught he was reminded why he had grown such an admiration toward him. There wasn’t a role Mr. Crowley couldn’t encapsulate. He could capture the mischievous nature of Puck in _A Midsummer Night’s Dream _while also perfectly portraying Macbeth’s descent into madness. A true chameleon in his skills.

While the bibliophile appreciated his parts in the classics, he also fancied his roles in more contemporary productions. In particular, his favorite had become _Strung Pearls_ in which Mr. Crowley played a stockbroker who had a secret life as a female Cabaret dancer in the 1920s. One of the many reasons Aziraphale held this piece close to his heart was the stunning beauty of his character’s alter ego, Annette. Her fiery locks styled in pristine finger waves and adorned with a black feather headband. Her ruby maxi dress with tasseled fringe matching the color of her sinuous lips. Her slender arms dressed in black, satin gloves. Her willowy neck draped with an elegant pearl necklace.

Another reason was that it was one of the few times he truly got emotional during a performance. At the climax of the story, Annette is recognized by some co-workers at the Cabaret bar she performed at and is confronted by them as she exited. Aziraphale can still see the image clear as day: Annette’s brilliant smile utterly quashed by the despair of being discovered.

“You must have me mistaken,” she defended firmly, trying to maintain the guise afloat. Trying to protect the identity that had brought her so much confidence and joy over the past year. The boat was sinking though as the two men circled her like hungry wolves, smiling wickedly.

“Nah, you’re right,” one jeered. “The lad we know is a bit of a prick. Besides, you’re much too pretty to be him.” He ran his hand lecherously across her rouged cheek which Annette swiftly smacked away.

Aziraphale knew full well it was all acting but he couldn’t help feel anger flaring inside him as they mockingly laughed at her.

“Ohh, ‘she’s’ got some spunk,” the other taunted

“I wonder what else ‘she’s’ got,” he remarked crudely, pawing at her skirt.

Annette tried to pull away but the other restrained her. “Get off me, you bastards!” The femininity of her voice finally faltering as she continued to beg, “Please, someone! Help—“ The man holding her placed a hand over her mouth, stifling her pleas.

The stage went dark, the only thing that could be heard was the men’s maniacal laughter and a successive pattering noise.

After that... silence.

Aziraphale wrung his hands in anticipation, waiting for the lights to return. When they did, his heart nearly shattered at the pitiful sight before him. The spotlight shone on Annette curled on the floor, silently weeping, mascara running down her sharp cheeks. Her ruby dress and black tights were torn, her gorgeous locks were tousled around and the pearls of her necklace were scattered around the ground like angelic teardrops.

Oh, how dearly he wanted to scoop her into his arms and shield her from everyone’s staring eyes.

She took a staggering breath, the line between reality and acting fading as she recited, “Here... on this dirty alleyway floor... is the final resting place of Annette Dubois. For you see, this world does not deserve her. It does not deserve to be graced by her beauty and elegance... Her optimism and kindness.”

He closed his eyes, the tears rolling down matching Aziraphale’s very own. “Perhaps, I never deserved her to begin with either,” he huffed bitterly. “Perhaps, it was selfish of me to expose her to the cruelty that blights this planet.”

Aziraphale swallowed the lump in his throat desperately wanting to comfortingly answer, “_No. You deserved to be her. You deserved to be happy._”

The moment he opened his eyes again, was Aziraphale’s final reason as to why he was so fond of this enactment. Because when those amber eyes looked out toward the crowd, they fell upon the tearful azure of his own. The bibliophile’s breath hitched and it felt as if time had stopped altogether. Internally, he was congratulating himself for splurging on an orchestra seat.

A mournful sigh passed the actor’s lips as he continued to stare back at him. “I suppose that is why I shall bear the punishment of my folly and not she.” With shaky arms he began to lift himself off the floor until he was on his knees; humbly resigning to his fate. “Come morning, I shall return to my old life. I shall strip of these rags and mend to the bruises and cuts. I shall hand in my resignation if word of my deviancy hasn’t gotten me dismissed already. I shall do this... so my beloved Annette may rest in peace.” He winced in pain as he rose to his feet to proclaim, “For she does not deserve our pity... only our remembrance.” He limped off the stage, the clicking of his single, remaining heel following behind like a phantom.

Aziraphale is sure he was the first to be on his feet, face streaked with drying tears as he applauded resoundingly. His heart was filled with relief when he saw that lively grin had returned to Mr. Crowley’s face as he returned to the stage for his bow.

After the curtains closed, Aziraphale snapped back to his mundane reality. However, as he was readying himself to depart he felt something beneath the sole of his tan loafers. As he lifted his foot, his eyes caught the iridescent glint of the object and gathered it up quickly, trying not to hold up the row of spectators trying to make their exit as well. In the well-lit lobby, he examined the small artifact and recognized it as a pearl from Annette’s costume. It may not have been a real one by any means but nevertheless the plastic bead was priceless to the shop keeper. He smiled admiringly at his new treasure and secured it away in his coat pocket.

In a way, Aziraphale felt as if finding that precious memento was a sign from the universe. That night in his bookshop, he sat at his desk with a blank piece of paper and a fountain pen, contemplating the words that could possibly express the esteem he felt toward the dashing thespian. Finally, he brought the inky tip to the eggshell paper, letting the word flow at their own volition.

_Dear Anthony J. Crowley,_

_I know I am merely one admirer among the countless you surely have. Nevertheless, I would like to take the opportunity to say thank you... Thank you for gracing the stage with your acting prowess and for enacting each character you play with the humanity they so rightly deserve. Getting to witness your work has truly been a blessing. Maybe this letter is impertinent but I do hope it serves as a reminder of the impact you have. I wish you all the best as you continue to touch lives through your career._

_Sincerely,_

_A.Z. Fell_

The letter remained in his desk drawer for a week until the bibliophile plucked up enough courage to send it off to the theater house so Mr. Crowley would receive it before his next show. Actually... it was more like Tracy dragged the courage out of him. She even accompanied him to the florist to help pick out a lovely arrangement of yellow lilies to pair with the handwritten dedication. 

After taking that leap, Aziraphale’s one-time gesture became a sort of personal ritual to send Mr. Crowley messages of gratitude for every show he went to. Truthfully, the only thing he hoped to gain out the tradition was the chance to give the actor something to smile at before he took the stage. He never expected what was about to unfold.

It had been a particularly slow day at the book shop, so he is pleasantly surprised to see a young woman browsing around. He chipperly greets, “Hello, miss. Are you looking for something particular? I’d be happy to assist. And may I add that I find your tartan dress very stylish.”

She adjusts her round spectacles before answering with a smile. “Oh, thanks that’s very kind of you but I actually wasn’t looking for a book. Although, it is quite an impressive collection,” she compliments.

“Why thank you,” he accepts. “I am quite fond of it as well. Most of these pieces have been passed through generations of my family. Oh, but enough about me. What can I help you with?” 

A smile of victory crosses her face. “So, you are the owner! Then you must be A.Z. Fell, right? Or, I guess you could be Co.,” she deliberates.

He chuckles at her sudden excitement. “No, you were correct the first time around. Although, A.Z. Fell is my pen name so you can just call me, Aziraphale.”

The brunette extends her hand out. “Nice to meet you, Aziraphale. I’m Anathema Device,” she introduces politely.

He briskly takes her hand. “Pleased to make your acquaintance, Miss Device.”

“Thanks. Now, I do have some business that I would like to discuss with you.”

“Yes, of course. Would you like to step into my office?”

“Oh, no, I’m fine here. It’s nothing so formal for that. I’m actually here on behalf of my boss,” Anathema reveals. “Do you know Mr. Anthony J. Crowley?”

Aziraphale feels his heart skip a beat at the sound of his name and he sputters, “I— yes, I do! Well, I don’t _know_ him personally but I’m a big fan of his work!”

“Yes, and your appreciation has been duly noted,” she beams. Anathema rummages through her carpetbag and pulls out an envelope with _To A.Z_. _Fell_ inscribed in the front. “Which is why I am here to personally invite you to his next performance next Saturday.” She holds out the envelope toward the stunned man. “This is your ticket; front row seat, of course. And as a bonus, after the show I will personally escort you backstage to meet Crowley,” she pitches. 

Aziraphale’s mind reels at her offer and starts pacing the floor not really sure what to do with himself. Surely, he had to be dreaming. At the very least it must be a cruel joke. 

“Is there a problem?” She quirks an eyebrow at the fidgety man. “If you’re busy that day I can reschedule.”

“No, no. There’s no problem. Everything’s is tickety-boo,” he claims nervously. He stares at the offering in her hand and composes himself a bit. “All of that is very kind, Miss Device, but I couldn’t possibly accept.”

“It was really no trouble setting this up. It’s the least we can do to show our appreciation,” she assures.

“That’s nice to hear and I do appreciate it but... I’m nobody to deserve such a gift.” He gently nudges her hand back toward her.

Anathema’s expression softens sympathetically. “But you do deserve it... You’ve been his biggest supporter. Anytime he gets one of your gifts, he gets this glimmer in his eyes,” she explains kindly. “Trust me, I’ve worked with the man for two years and the happiest I’ve seen him is when he reads your letters.”

He silently gulps, “Really...” In the recess of his mind, the bibliophile feared his gifts were a nuisance. A way to sate his silly infatuation. Never did it cross his mind that it would actually hold any significance to the thespian.

“Yes, really.” She holds out the invitation again. “You've already done plenty but... it would mean a lot to him if you could make it.”

Aziraphale recognizes the sincerity in her voice and hesitantly takes the present from her. As he holds it in his hand, the worth of it finally hits him. He gives her a huge, appreciative grin and bashfully giggles, “Alright then. I’ll be there!”

Anathema perks up with delight. “Excellent!”

After she explains some of the last details, Aziraphale walks her outside to where her bicycle is parked and bids her adieu. After she rides away, he quickly reenters the shop to call Tracy.

He doesn’t get her on the first try but she finally picks ups on the second attempt. “Terribly sorry, darling, but I’m in the middle of a session. Mind if I phone you later?”

“Sorry for interrupting, Tracy, but I had to tell you the big news! I’m meeting him! Mr. Crowley, that is! I'm meeting him next Saturday,” he announces.

There’s a pause on the other end. “One moment, please.” He hears her put the phone down and clap her hands together. “Unfortunately, the spirits are not in a cooperative mood so we are going to have to pick this up later.” There’s some protest as she presumably shoos them out of the room. She picks the phone up again. “Tell me all about it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale's favorite play isn't real but I got so invested in the plot that it might spawn a separate fic (depending on how life treats me :3).


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, my lovely readers! I just wanted to say a big thanks for everyone’s support! I honestly wasn’t expecting to get much of a response to this story but I’m so happy I was proven wrong! 
> 
> This chapter takes place the day after the first one.  
P.S. If I did chapter titles, this one would be “Crowley being a pansexual mess for 1000+ words and Anathema dealing with it like a boss”.

“You did fucking what now?” Crowley hisses indignantly as he and Anathema sit outside a café in Mayfair.

His assistant takes a delicate sip of her cardamom tea unbothered by the attention her boss is drawing to them. “I tracked your secret admirer down to invite them to the show next week and set up a meet and greet for you two,” she reaffirms.

Crowley pinches the bridge of his nose and grits, “That’s what I thought you said. How did you even manage to find them?”

“I used this magical little thing called ‘_Google_’.” Anathema can feel her boss staring daggers at her through his tinted glasses but continues, “Anyways, when I searched the name, a bookshop in Soho popped up: A.Z. Fell and Co. So, naturally, I took the time out of my day off to investigate and, as I suspected, they were the owner.” She flashes him a cheeky smile as she cheers with her teacup. “You’re welcome.”

“Oh, right, of course! Thank you soooo much for consulting me on this important decision,” he berates, waving his hands dramatically.

She rolls her eyes and whispers, “Hardass” under her breath. She watches as Crowley leans back in his chair with his arms crossed, silently fuming. Anathema places her cup down and sighs, “Fine, I’ll admit I jumped the gun a bit.”

“More like pulled the trigger of said gun,” he grumbles snarkily.

“In my defense, I’ve tried to convince you to reach out to this person. I just wanted you to stop pining and take a leap of faith.”

“Well, did you ever stop to think there was a reason I didn’t want to meet them, ‘Thema,” he snaps. The actor gets a pang of guilt as Anathema’s face falls a bit in disappointment. He scrubs his cheek in frustration and groans, “Look. I appreciate that you were trying to help but I don’t know if I’m ready to be face-to-face with them.”

Of course, Crowley _wants_ to meet the enigmatic A.Z. Fell that has been lifting his spirits for over a year. Regardless of their gender or physical appearance, he has often fantasized of being in the presence of their brilliantly articulate mind. Wondered if the warmth of their eyes parallels that of their words... Imagined what it would be like to see kindness and devotion in the flesh.

That desire doesn’t cancel the doubts that haunt his mind.

Crowley has never feared of being disappointed by his admirer. He knew that gentle soul never could. No, he feared that when they met... _he_ wasn’t what they expected. He feared that when he could no longer hide behind all the theatrics and his mask came off... they’d be disappointed by the man he really was.

The dark, selfish part of him would rather keep his fantasy intact instead of having it crash and burn... even if it meant he’d never get to personally thank that wonderful person.

His face may be stony but Anathema perceives his insecurities lying beneath the surface. It seems that, as of late, it’s become easier for the young assistant to discern her boss’s emotions which only bolsters her tenacity. “Well, they’re ready to meet you... Don’t you think it’s worth it to put in the same effort?” she asked compassionately.

When she began working for him, Crowley pretty much stonewalled her with his lackadaisical demeanor. He never really cared to divulge anything about his personal life to anyone (although sometimes Anathema doubted he had one outside of the auditions and rehearsals she scheduled for him). Over time, she would come to realize his lax personality was simply another role he would slip into once the curtains fell. Ironically, the only times she managed to capture glimpses of authenticity was when he surrendered himself onstage. However, she noticed the biggest break in his character when Aziraphale’s first letter arrived.

That night she had signed for the bouquet of lilies and left it with Crowley in his dressing room, which wasn’t anything really out of the ordinary. The thespian wasn’t a stranger to receiving the occasional gift from fans. However, when she went to call him to stage Anathema wasn’t expecting to see him sat at his vanity... smiling. She had to do a double-take as she caught his expression of contentment in the mirror, gazing at the letter in his hand.

His assistant hesitantly cleared her throat. “Crowley, ten minutes till showtime,” she reminded.

She wanted to kick herself as his trance was broken and he quickly composed himself. “Er, right then.” He put the letter down and fidgeted with the tie of his costume.

Anathema could’ve dropped the incident but she decided to press on. “It’s really sweet, isn’t it? The flowers and letter, I mean.”

“Yes, I suppose,” he answered feigning flippancy. “Just someone thanking me for my work or whatnot...” A grin almost betraying his indifference.

“Well... I’m glad for you,” she commented with a reassuring smile.

He simply hummed in acknowledgment as he continued to get ready.

Although he tried to be nonchalant about the whole situation, it seemed that every gesture of endearment that followed eroded his effort to hide his joy (or at the least his version of it). One of these moments was when he made the comment, “A person this nice can’t possibly exist, right, 'Thema?”

“You know you could always try and find out,” she chuckled amusedly.

“Egh, what would be the fun in that,” he said dismissively.

That was the first instant of Anathema’s campaign to get them to meet. However, when she realized she wasn’t making any progress in swaying her stubborn boss, she decided to take matters into her own hands.

Which brings them to their present situation as Crowley stares into his black coffee, mulling over his options. Ultimately, he lets out a heavy sigh. “Fine. It’s the least I could do…”

That brightens his assistant’s mood again. “I promise, Crowley, you won’t regret it,” she pledges.

“Yeah, yeah...” He hesitates a bit before casually asking, “So, what are they like? A.Z. Fell that is.”

Anathema tuts at him, waggling her finger from side-to-side. “Uh-uh, no spoilers, boss.”

“Oh, come on. Since you backed me into a wall on this, the least you could do is give me a sneak peek,” he badgers.

“Fair enough, you grouch,” she yields snippily. She strokes her chin thoughtfully trying to be as vague as possible. “Posh,” she describes, mimicking a British accent.

“Hmm, seems about right.”

“If politeness had a face, they’d be in the dictionary,” she adds.

“Again, that was to be assumed,” he huffs annoyedly.

“Okay, okay, give me a sec... Has an appreciation for plaid,” she informs as she motions to the red, plaid bow adorning her white blouse collar. The death glare returns. “Alright, uses terms like, and I quote, ‘tickety-boo’.”

The corners of Crowley’s lips twitch. _Goddammit, that’s fucking adorable._

“Oh and the most important detail!” She lifts her eyebrows suggestively. “They didn’t have a ring. At least, not one where it really matters, anyway.”

Crowley’s cheeks warm up and he sputters huffily, “Don’t get ahead of yourself, Device. You don’t even know if we’ll be friends.”

She flashes back to how happy Aziraphale looked when she left. “I think you two will get along fine.”

Crowley pities her optimism and dubiously asks, “Do you really believe that?”

Anathema smiles, “I’ve never been wrong before.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a little side note that Crowley does appreciate all his fans, just Aziraphale even more so. But as we all know, he’s not fond of being seen as “nice.” ;3


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another chapter devoted to a fake play I created to show off Crowley’s acting skills and Aziraphale thirsting over it :) Enjoy!

Aziraphale stands before his cheval mirror, putting the finishing touches to his favorite, dry-cleaned outfit. The day had finally arrived: he was finally going to meet Mr. Crowley. So, obviously, everything had to be tip-top as he ensures there is no wrinkle in site or button out of place. He had even taken his barber’s recommendation and bought a new cologne for the evening.

Once he’s satisfied, he steps out to the lounge where Tracy is nibbling on the biscuits he set out. As she notices him, his friend gives him a playful, little whistle. “Come on then, give me little spin, dearie. Don’t be afraid to flaunt what you have,” she teases.

He chuckles and curtly does what he’s told. “I appreciate the flattery, Tracy, but you don’t think the outfit is too formal, right?” he asks coyly, fearing he might appear too overzealous.

“Nonsense,” she dismisses with a wave. “It makes you seem perfectly respectable. I’m sure Mr. Crowley will be gobsmacked once he sees you.”

“That’s a bit presumptuous but... I wouldn’t mind if that was the effect,” he admits with a blush, the pair bursting into a fit of giggles.

After he tucks his ticket into his coat pocket, the two head back downstairs to the bookshop. Once Aziraphale locks up, the medium links their arms together and walks him to the bus stop. She had kindly offered to let him borrow Sergeant Shadwell’s moped but he ultimately declined at the risk of arriving with helmet hair and rumpled clothing. They see the bus approach and Tracy gives his cheek a quick peck before wishing him luck. He thanks her and gives his friend one last wave before boarding. The bus starts rolling away, taking the eager devotee to his destination.

Once the bibliophile arrives at the theatre house, he makes his way to the front row and finds his seat. Despite sitting on plush red velvet, Aziraphale stirs uncomfortably as he realizes how close to the stage he actually is. His stomach flutters with anticipation, realizing he’ll be able to capture the finer details of Mr. Crowley’s handsome face and entrancing smile. More daunting is the fact that the thespian, in turn, will soon be seeing him... Aziraphale just hopes he doesn’t underwhelm him.

Instead of psyching himself out more, the bookworm busies himself by reading the playbill. The cover page is a monochromatic picture of jail cell bars casting the word _Fallen_ on the ground. He flips through the booklet until he reaches the cast page and smiles at the first name on the list: **Anthony J. Crowley as Thade Arling**. Aziraphale eventually reads through the synopsis and is intrigued by the plot. _An inmate incarcerated for armed robbery forms an unlikely bond with a scrupulous prison guard. Moral stances are tested, however, as their clandestine relationship intensifies and they must choose how much they’re willing to risk._

Eventually, the lights begin to dim and Aziraphale straightens up, preparing himself to be immersed in a new world as the curtains open. The sound of a metal door clanking shut and the subtle jingle of keys reverberates through the darkness. A stern voice announces, “It’s past curfew, Arling. Lights out.”

Slowly, a dull spotlight shines on Thade sat on a cot with a journal in hand and a small reading light illuminating next to him. He begrudgingly turns it off with a huff and lays himself on the creaky bed, sliding his book underneath his pillow. The inmate turns to his side so that he’s facing the audience, hand tucked underneath his head.

Aziraphale takes in the details of this new character. He dons a powder blue t-shirt and grey sweatpants that grip his lean figure. His ginger hair is on the scruffy side and he can see a small tattoo peeking beneath his right sideburn.

He starts weaving his spell as he starts his monologue by pondering, “What makes a man evil? Is it the actions he inflicts onto others or how others perceive his actions? Is it something that is ingrained into his existence from birth or is it instilled in him through the cruelty of the world he lives in? These are the questions I’ve asked myself since being confined to these steel and concrete walls, inhabiting the same turf as men who have executed varying acts of atrocities... Most importantly, I’ve wondered if redemption is possible for someone who is branded with that label. When you fall, can you pick yourself up regardless of the height?” His gaze sweeps through the front row and Aziraphale nervously grips his armrest as those honey-brown orbs graze him momentarily. “For me at least, the time I spent with Elijah Prescott gives me hope that I can earn atonement... That I’m not beyond saving.”

The lighting of the stage brightens, revealing a pair of prison guards: one an older gentleman with a greying mustache and the other, a strapping young man with mousy, slicked hair and pristinely polished shoes. The older guard is explaining to the rookie his tasks and giving him advice on how to handle the inmates heckling, which could be heard in the background. Once he finishes his standard spiel, he gives the young lad a firm pat on the back. “Luck, Prescott.” The balding man steps out of view, leaving the other to his own devices.

Once he leaves, Thade sits up to eye the young guard, who is stiffly pacing around, up and down through the steel door separating them. The inmate slings his lanky legs off the cot and leans his forearm onto his knee. “That was a nice little discourse but the old geezer basically left you out to dry,” he casually remarks.

“Excuse me,” he asks confusedly.

“I’m just saying he forgot to mention that Ollie, the bloke two doors down, is a bit of a spitter. He’s been working on his distance too. It’d be a shame if he ruined that new uniform on the first day. Oh, he also left out that Finnegan likes to haze newbies by endlessly singing show tunes so I’d recommend investing in some earplugs.”

“I appreciate the unsolicited advice but I can handle myself,” he assures with conviction, turning his nose up to the other man.

Thade chuckles, flashing a toothy grin. “Right, right. I’m sure the virtue exuding from a clean-shaven, plucky lad, such as yourself, won’t be like chum in a pool of sharks.”

The guard straightens his posture, visibly miffed by the comment. He steps closer, to the metal door with a fixed expression. “Well, that’s what the cages are for, right?” He swiftly taps a knuckle on one of the bars. “To keep the beasts in check?”

The prisoner gasps dramatically, “That wasn’t very nice.”

“Wasn’t supposed to be,” he shrugs before turning on his heels to leave. A hocking noise can be heard before Elijah flinches as if something hit his face; a wickedly cheerful hoot following soon after.

“Can’t say I didn’t warn you. Oy, Ollie! Was that a new record?” Thade calls out mockingly, causing an uproar of laughter.

Elijah turns to glare at the arrogant inmate. Without a word, he pulls out a bandana to wipe off the mess before stoically walking away.

Throughout the next scenes, Aziraphale watches in fascination as the relationship between Thade and Elijah evolves from constant bickering to friendly banter to discussions about their interests and life outside of the prison. The judgmental attitudes they had toward each other fading as they come to understand how despite their differences, they ended up together under the same roof... Their tentative friendship blooming into something more profound before the audience’s eyes.

“What do you plan on doing when you get out, Thade,” Elijah asks in a hushed tone, since it’s past curfew. The two are sitting back to back on the floor, the steel barrier still separating them. He passes the bottle of ale he snuck to the inmate.

Thade takes the bottle through a gap and takes an indulgent swig. He hums, “Not sure... S’not like I have anything to go back to.”

The guard contemplates this. “Well, that just means you get a fresh start... Who knows, maybe you could write a book. I’m sure you’ve got plenty of good stories to write about your time here.”

“Ah, I’m sure everyone would like to read all about The Great Cafeteria Brawl of ‘17,” he chuckles lowly. “What about you, Eli? You plan on staying on the block after I’m gone?”

He laughs lightly, “I’m not sure I’d want to. What’d I do without you having my back here?”

“You’d be utterly lost, I guarantee it.”

The playful atmosphere is suddenly replaced by that of dejection as they remember that their time together is limited. “I suppose it’s for the best when we go our separate ways,” he comments, a hidden doubt underneath. “In two years, you’ll have your freedom and Grace and I will be married, living somewhere out in the country...”

Aziraphale notes the flash of disappointment across Thade’s face at the mention of Elijah’s fiancée. “Right... But until then, I say we make the most of our time now,” he suggests, offering him the bottle.

Elijah turns slightly to take it from his friend. As his hand touches the cool glass, the pair’s eyes lock together. He swallows thickly as he brushes his fingers against Thade’s, whose intense gaze is focused on the younger man’s lips. “I guess we should,” he murmurs.

With those words, they throw caution to the wind, crushing their lips together in a desperate kiss. Thade puts the bottle down to snake his hands through the bars to pull Elijah’s face closer.

After a while, the guard pulls away breathlessly. “This is a mistake,” Elijah pants as he places kisses to Thade’s palm.

“A huge one,” he confirms, nuzzling closer.

“Monumental.”

“Absurd.”

Their words fall flat, as both know what they want.

Elijah scrambles to his feet, trying his best to not fumble with his keys to open the door. The prop door is pulled away leaving no obstacle between them. There’s only a brief moment of hesitation before the two desperately latch onto each other again.

A blush creeps over Aziraphale’s cheeks as Thade shucks off his shirt, revealing a plane of subtly sun-kissed skin dusted with ginger fuzz. Secretly, the bibliophile is a smidge envious of the younger actor as Elijah explores the smooth terrain under his hands.

Thade leads him toward the cot until he’s laid underneath him. He hovers over Elijah, their longing gaze broken by another hungry kiss before the scene fades to black.

Aziraphale lets out the breath he was apparently holding and tugs on his collar. If he was getting hot-and-bothered already, he’s grateful that they didn’t take it any farther.

The affair between the inmate and guard continues as they navigate ways to be together. However, reality abruptly catches up with their fantasies.

“Arling, you have a visitor,” Elijah announces as he opens the prison door.

This is their code when they want to have their private liaisons during the day, so Thade tries not to appear too excited. Although he can’t help cheekily ask, “Again? Seems like I’m _very _popular these days.”

The scene changes as a shelf stacked with sheets and cleaning supplies is added to the stage. Thade wastes no time clinging onto Elijah’s neck. “So, Officer Prescott. What’s the occasion, today? Mandatory strip search?” He playfully nips his earlobe. “Or were you thinking a cavity search would be more appropriate?” he asks huskily

Elijah groans at the suggestion but wills himself to gently push him away. “Thade, please... I need to tell you something important,” he explains with a somber tone.

He rolls his eyes a bit. “Sheesh, why so serious all of sudden?”

There’s a tense pause before he heavy-heartedly reveals, “I’m leaving... Gave my two-weeks this morning...”

Thade steps back, a mixture of confusion, hurt and anger flooding his expression. “What are you talking about? You... you promised you’d stay as long as I was here!”

“I know but I can’t— _we_ can’t keep doing this. It’s gone too far,” he reasons, trying to be the calm one in the situation. “It’s best if we just end it now before it’s too late... I have to start thinking about my future with Grace.”

Thade barks, “Why? You weren’t thinking of her when we were fucking or anytime I had your cock in my mouth! Why are you choosing _now_ to feel guilty about it?”

“Thade, calm down,” he begs.

This only serves to trigger the inmate’s wrath as he pins him against the shelf. “Don’t you dare tell me to calm down,” he hisses. “What, did you realize you are too fucking good to be with a piece of shit like me? I’m only good for a quick fuck, is that it?”

“No! It’s nothing that like that—“

“Then what is it? Why are you leaving?” His hands are shaking as he clutches onto his shirt and his voice quivers with frustration. “Why won’t you stay with me?”

“…Grace is pregnant,” he admits. “I’m going to be a father.”

Aziraphale heart wrenches in his chest as Thade’s face crumples in despair. The prisoner finally lets go of the guard’s shirt and brushes his hair back. “Congratulations...” he says sourly, slumping down on the floor.

Elijah kneels down in front of him and murmurs, “I’m sorry...”

He reaches out to hold his hands but Thade recoils from his touch. “Don’t... You don’t have to apologize. S’not your fault you want to have a stable family and a cozy little home... A normal life... I’m not worth throwing all that away.” He quickly wipes a tear with the back of his hand.

Elijah leans in to cup his face and this time Thade doesn’t make the attempt to fight it. “That’s what is so unfair about all this,” he croaks as he strokes his cheek with his thumb. “It’s that you _are_ worth it... I just wish I was brave enough to choose you. To fight for us but... I can’t afford to be selfish anymore.”

Thade sniffles pitifully and buries his head into the crook of his lover’s neck. “I know,” he exhales as if the truth is carving at his heart like a blunt knife. “Just... Let’s pretend until we can’t anymore...”

“Okay…” Elijah sighs, kissing the top of his head.

Aziraphale mourns with them, dabbing his eyes with his monogrammed handkerchief he had the foresight to bring as they continue to hold onto each other. Two soulmates falling victim to the cruelty of their fates.

In the last scene, Elijah stands in front of Thade’s cell. “I’m heading out soon... I just wanted to give you something before I left.” He hands him a parcel wrapped in brown paper.

He smirks teasingly. “I thought last night was my goodbye gift?”

The guard huffs out a laugh. “Just open it.”

Thade takes it and tears the wrapping to reveal a leather-bound notebook.

“For your stories and... to remind you that there’s a life for you beyond this place... A life beyond me.”

Thade gulps but manages a somber smile. “Thank you.”

Elijah returns the smile and offers his hand through the bars. “Goodbye, Thade.”

Thade gently squeezes it in a handshake. “Goodbye, Eli.” Their touch lingers before they solemnly let go and Thade forlornly watches as Elijah exits the stage. He goes to sit on his cot as the lights begin to dim. The grieving prisoner strokes his finger along the cover of his notebook before opening it. He pulls out a small pencil from underneath his pillow and starts scribbling. “What makes a man evil...?”

After the stage is thrown into darkness, Aziraphale and the crowd erupts into roaring applause. As the performers return to the stage for curtain call, the bibliophile observers as Mr. Crowley graciously waves at the spectators. A familiar breathlessness overtakes Aziraphale as the thespian’s line of sight reaches him again and the blonde offers him a shy smile. The wind is practically knocked out of his lungs when it’s softly reciprocated, even if it is short-lived as the cast soon departs backstage and the curtains finally close.

The rest of the audience members start to file out but Aziraphale stays in his seat patiently waiting for Anathema to arrive per her instructions. It doesn’t take long before the brunette arrives with a cordial grin on her face to greet him. This time the young assistant wears a frilled periwinkle blouse tucked into her navy pencil skirt and her ebony tresses are styled into a neat bun.

“Hello, Miss Device. It’s nice to see you again.”

“It’s great seeing you too, Aziraphale. Did you enjoy the show?”

“It was positively spectacular,” he gushes. “Although, I never doubted it’d be anything less.”

“I’m glad to hear it. Just to let you know though, you’re going to have to put up with me a while longer. Crowley’s getting out of his costume as we speak so, do you mind if we wait in the green room in the meantime?”

“Not at all,” he assures. “Besides, you’ve been nothing but courteous since we’ve met so your company doesn’t bother me in the slightest.”

She smiles gratefully at him before escorting him backstage. All the while thinking, _“God, I hope Crowley doesn’t short circuit when he meets this saint.”_

In the green room, Aziraphale happily munches on the complimentary charcuterie board laid out while they wait. The bibliophile pokes at an olive and a roll of prosciutto with the biodegradable toothpick Anathema gave him as he listens to her passionately explain the risk plastic ones pose to aquatic life. As she’s convincing him to use paper straws to spare sea turtles any potential suffering, her phone gives off a singular _ding_. The assistant checks it and has a brisk back-and-forth with the sender. Anathema looks up from her phone and chirpily notifies, “Alright, he’s ready for you.”

Aziraphale’s nearly chokes on his snack but manages to stammer, “R-right. I guess we should get a wiggle on then.”

She senses his anxiety and calmly reassures, “Hey, don’t worry. As far as I know, he’s never bitten anyone,” she quips before offhandedly adding, “Just hit them with his car.”

“What was that?”

She smiles innocently. “Oh, nothing.”

The pair make their way through a narrow hallway until they reach one with a paper plaque labeled **Anthony J. Crowley**. Anathema knocks on the door. “Boss, it’s us. Make yourself decent,” she advises jokingly.

From inside, she can hear a small thud and a muffled _“Shit! Shit! Shit!”_ Eventually, Crowley calls out, “Come in.”

Anathema turns to Aziraphale, who is nervously adjusting his coat. “You ready?”

He takes a deep breath and answers with a timid smile, “As I’ll ever be...”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apparently every one of my AJC plays requires a monologue and an angsty finale XD
> 
> Also, I personally had a British version of Armie Hammer in mind when I pictured Elijah but feel free too imagine whoever ;D


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It’s finally happening! :D 
> 
> I love this fandom to bits! I had a pretty crummy week so thank you all for putting a smile on my face with your sweet comments and kudos!
> 
> Happy readings my lovelies! ❤️

At his vanity desk, Crowley slips on his blazer and fusses with a pesky strand of hair, tucking it into his newly gelled coif. He stares at his shades sitting on the counter, deliberating if he should wear them or not. Ultimately, he unfolds them and pushes them up the bridge of his nose to complete his look. He might be risking coming off as a prick but his sunglasses have always provided him a sense of comfort. When it comes to his emotions offstage, he prefers to have a shield for them and today was no exception. If anything this was when it was called for.

He picks up his phone and quickly shoots Anathema a text before he can overthink it.

**Ready**

He watches as the text bubbles appear.

**Awesome ** **👍🏻 **

**And for the love of God, you better not wear those darn glasses**

Crowley grumbles at this and simply replies:

**Back off Device. I’m doing this my way >:p**

**Fine whatever ** **🙄. Be there in a bit**

He sets his phone down to rest his elbow on the counter and leans his jaw against his hand. Crowley notices that he’s nervously bouncing his knee and suddenly feels ridiculous at how he’s handling the whole situation. He’s performed in front of thousands of people for over a decade and this is what finally gets his stomach churning. Although, he can’t quite decipher if it’s out of genuine apprehension or excitement. It was one thing hoping A.Z. Fell was in the audience; if anything, it provided a sense of comfort. However, it was completely different knowing that they were somewhere in the front row. Anytime he caught one of the audience member’s eyes, he wondered if it was them. Perhaps the fine woman with acrylic nails and a Louis Vuitton purse? Or the young man with a man-bun and cashmere turtleneck? Or... the familiar gentlemen with a crisp suit and humble smile?

His thoughts are interrupted by a knock at the door. “Boss, it’s us. Make yourself decent,” Anathema requests.

In a panic, Crowley ungracefully swivels his chair around, forgetting entirely that he has legs. Yet, he is abruptly reminded as his shin hits the corner of the vanity drawer and pain shoots up the gangly limb. “Shit! Shit! Shit,” he hisses through gritted teeth.

“_Get your shit together_,” he berates internally. He adjusts his chair to properly face the door and crosses his uninjured leg over the other, coolly reclining back in his seat. The actor takes a deep breath and announces, “Come in.”

After a bit, the doorknob turns and Anathema pops her head inside. “Everything okay?” she asks with a quirk in her eyebrow.

“Splendid,” he curtly responds, ignoring the throbbing of his bruise.

“Alright,” she says eying him skeptically. She turns her head to address the person behind her. “After you,” she instructs gently.

Crowley sucks in a breath silently as Anathema opens the door completely and steps aside to make room for his guest. The moment A.Z. Fell shuffles into the room, he applauds his decision to keep his glasses on as his eyes widen, recognizing the man before him. As his admirer stands politely with his hands folded together, the thespian properly takes in all of his features. The silky wisps of his blonde curls, the glimmer of his celestially blue eyes and the sweetness of his pink lips shaped into that unforgettable smile...

_Oh... I’m so fucked._

Aziraphale was also thinking along those same lines as he stared back at Crowley, trying his best not to gawk. Even if they were directly facing each other, the bibliophile couldn’t believe he was actually there in front of him. The _real_ him. In all of his designer-shades-trimmed-jacket-snakeskin-boot-wearing glory as he casually sits in front of his vanity mirror; the makeup lights making his fiery hair glow like a blazing halo.

Anathema looks between the pair, who are seemingly shell-shocked. She clears her throat and prompts, “Crowley, I’d like to officially introduce you to Mr. Aziraphale Felton.”

This finally breaks their trance a bit as they come back to reality. Aziraphale is the first to react as he steps forward and extends his hand out with all the poise he can muster. “It’s an absolute honor to meet you, Mr. Crowley. Thank you so much for having me,” he beams radiantly, the corners of his eyes wrinkling with delight.

There’s a beat. A moment where Anathema worries that Crowley will keep up the defenses he works so hard to maintain. However, her doubts are alleviated as Crowley’s lips slowly turn up into a smile.

He unfolds his legs, the pain now long forgotten, as he finally stands to unite with his supporter. “Trust me, the feeling is mutual...” He reaches out to clasp their hands together; his cold fingers warmed by the other man’s grasp. “It’s a pleasure to finally meet you, Aziraphale.”

He quite likes the way his name rolls off of the thespian’s tongue as his cheeks flush pink. A detail that Crowley finds incredibly endearing. Aziraphale huffs out a nervous laugh and hesitantly loosens his grip. “That’s very kind of you to say, Mr. Crowley.”

Crowley stuffs his hand in his jean pocket and shakes his head a bit. “Please, just call me Crowley. No need for those formalities,” he assures.

He smiles coyly and nods. “Alright then, Crowley.”

“Er, would you like to have a seat,” he proposes, motioning to the sofa chairs arranged around a small coffee table.

“Yes, that would be lovely.”

As they make themselves comfortable, Anathema gets to work and grabs the bottle of champagne from the mini-fridge. She pops open the bottle and pours them each a glass before handing it to them. “Alright, you two. I’ll give you some privacy. Just shoot me a text if you need anything, boss.”

“Thanks, ‘Thema.”

“Thank you, Miss Device.”

Before she exits, she mouths “Good Luck” to her hopelessly beguiled boss who inconspicuously rolls his eyes at her.

Once Anathema leaves, there is an awkward silence between the two. Crowley is the one who decides to fill in the still air by asking, “So, what would you like to drink to?”

Aziraphale ponders this for a second and answers, “How about to good company?”

A faint smile appears on Crowley’s face as he holds his glass out toward Aziraphale. “To good company then...”

The bibliophile offers a sheepish smile as he daintily clinks their glasses together. While they sip on their effervescent beverages, Aziraphale’s eye catches the dark symbol on Crowley’s sideburn again. At this distance, he can examine the intricately looped design of the serpent adorning his skin. Suddenly, he feels self-conscious as Crowley notices him staring. “S-sorry, I’m being terribly rude,” he apologizes profusely.

“S’fine. Nothing I’m not used to.” _God, that sounds so egotistical!_

Although, Aziraphale doesn’t seem to take it the way as he sighs with relief. “Well, I suppose it does come with your job... I was just curious about your tattoo. I’d never noticed it before so I thought it was part of your costume.”

Crowley instinctively runs his finger across it. “Ah, right. Usually, I cover it up with makeup but I thought it added to the character so the director let me keep it.”

The blonde hums with interest. “If you don’t mind me asking, is there a particular significance to it?”

He laughs through his nose. “I wish there was a deep meaning to it but really I got it on a whim when I was ‘bout sixteen or seventeen.” Crowley notes Aziraphale’s attentiveness to his story and decides to proceed. “I was utterly sloshed, my friend Lucius egged me on and our friend Bee conveniently worked at a tattoo parlor. Everyone used to call me Crawley so I brilliantly thought a snake would be fitting.”

“Why ‘Crawley’?” Aziraphale asks amusedly.

Crowley shrugs a bit. “Not really sure how it got started. Must’ve been my undeniably cunning charm and spindly appearance,” he jokes, which earns a giggle from Aziraphale.

“Well... I think it’s unique nonetheless,” he compliments. “Also, I think it’s amazing that you put so much thought into the characters you play as if they really exist. Oh, like your portrayal of Annette in _Strung Pearls_. That’s by far one of my favorites,” he rambles excitedly. “Although, your rendition of Hamlet is a close second because that’s the first time I saw you but... the beauty you imbued in Annette was absolutely breathtaking.” Aziraphale looks down at his glass nostalgically as he confesses, “I even found one of the pearls you wore and... after that, I decided to write to you.”

Crowley gulps quietly as warmth blooms across his cheeks. He recalls the moment he first saw his admirer; the memory laid out in front of him like a play scene. He remembers the sadness in those pale blue eyes as he stared back at him, sharing the same pain Annette felt... It makes sense now that the letters and gifts started appearing soon after that performance. Additionally, Crowley is moved by the realization that this kind stranger has dedicated his time and money for even longer than that. He’s been an invisible presence watching over him like a guardian angel for nearly five years...

He opens his dry mouth, trying to get the right words out. “I’m glad you did... Your letters reminded me why I started acting in the first place... To give people a break from the world out there. So... thank you, Aziraphale.”

He wants to say more. He wants to say, “_Thank you for all of your kindness. Thank you for bringing a smile to my face on days I can’t do it alone... Thank you for _caring.” He wishes he could... but that would mean succumbing to his vulnerabilities; a task far too overwhelming for him to bear in this instant.

Aziraphale’s breath hitches, feeling his insides flutter with fondness. It’s hard for him to fathom the idea, even now as he hears it from Crowley’s own mouth. That his letters were more than just evanescent gifts to him... That they were truly appreciated. He swallows the lump in his throat before managing to tenderly say, “You’re welcome, Crowley.”

The actor finishes the rest of his drink and sets the glass down. “Now, I think we’ve talked enough about me. I’d like to know more about you. For starters, Anathema told me you own a bookshop.”

Crowley notices him immediately light up at the chance to talk about it. “Yes, I do have quite an assortment. I’ve always been a bookworm so, naturally, I’ve spent my life collecting as many as I can. The older the better as I always say! You wouldn’t believe the curiosities I’ve come across throughout the years. Why, I was able to acquire a set of prophetic books said to have survived a bombing during World War II. Can you believe that? The chances of them surviving were absolutely astronomical!”

Crowley blissfully listens to Aziraphale open up to him, completely allured by the passion emanating from the bibliophile as he giddily jabbers on about his collection. “Once, someone from The British Museum came in to inquire about an early draft of _Julius Caesar_ that had marginal notes written by Shakespeare himself. They offered substantial compensation for it but I had to respectfully decline. It might’ve been a little selfish but there are some pieces I simply can’t bear to part with,” he admits a bit guiltily.

“Nothing wrong with being protective over them, especially hearing how hard you work to take proper care of them. Seems to me they’re better off with you than behind a stuffy, glass box.”

“I suppose you’re right,” he chuckles lightly.

There’s a knock at the door before Anathema opens it, now wearing her trench coat. “Sorry to have to break this up, Crowley, but they’re closing up soon so we have to get going.”

Her boss’s eyebrows shoot up in dismay as he looks down at his watch to see how late it was. “Oh, bollocks, you’re right...” he huffs.

“Seems time got away from us...” Aziraphale remarks with a slight tinge of disappointment.

They get up from their seats disheartened at the fleeting time they had together. After a lingering moment, Anathema makes a subtle coughing noise and tilts her head toward Aziraphale. Crowley takes the hint and pipes up, “Can I, uh, walk you to your car?”

”_Jesus, what would he do without me reminding him of basic social skills?_” Anathema thinks, face-palming internally.

“Oh, thank you but I actually took the bus so there’s no need.”

“Well, in that case, I’ll give you a lift home,” he suggests matter-of-factly.

Aziraphale makes a little sputtering noise. “I appreciate your offer but really I’m fine. Besides I’ve taken enough of your time—“

Crowley holds his hand up. “_Tch, tch, tch._ None of that. You’ve _given_ me plenty of your time so the least I can do is extend the same courtesy.”

He glances over to Anathema still unsure but she gives him a supportive nod. “O-okay,” he accepts blushingly.

-

Despite the initial unease, the car ride to Soho in the thespian’s Bentley is comfortable. The air is filled with Crowley’s rock music and the subtle thrum of his fingers on the steering wheel. He is also being quite mindful of the speed limit which Aziraphale appreciates immensely. Unbeknownst to him, it was mainly due to Anathema “kindly” cautioning her boss not to drive like a madman unless he wanted to scare him away on the first day.

As they pull up in front of the book shop, the pair stay there in silence, neither really wanting to say goodbye. Aziraphale finally chimes, “I know I’ve said this already but thank you again for your hospitality. Truly, I couldn’t have asked for a better night… Who knows? Maybe when I inevitably watch your next play, you’ll catch me in the audience again.”

“That’d be nice.” _No, you twat! Don’t let him think that’s the only time you’ll ever see him!_

The bibliophile gives him a final handshake and a warm smile. “Well, goodnight, Crowley.”

“’Night, Aziraphale...” They let go of each other but as Aziraphale opens the car door to leave, Crowley suddenly blurts, “Lunch!”

_Not like that you fucking idiot!_

The blonde blinks at him in confusion. “Beg your pardon?”

Crowley wants the Earth to swallow him whole but he trudges on. “What I meant was... we should have lunch together. It doesn’t have to be whenever I have a show, just whenever you’re free. I guess the next time we see each other I’d prefer it to be more about us than me so...what do you say?”

Aziraphale feels as if his heart is about to leap out of his chest and onto the finely upholstered interior of Crowley’s car. He beams again, his pearly white teeth practically glowing under the dim light of the street lamp. “I’d like that very much.”

An equally content grin spreads across Crowley’s face. “Great.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bonus: Crowley usually gives Anathema a ride home but since she’s awesome and thinks of everything she got Newton to pick her up this time :)


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I call this chapter “Ineffable Husbands and The Great Oyster Innuendos”. I’d also like to thank Food Network for endowing me with culinary knowledge to prepare me for this moment (ﾉ◕ヮ◕)ﾉ*:・ﾟ

“How did you manage to get a reservation on such short notice, Crowley?” Aziraphale ponders as their hostess seats them. “Usually, it‘s difficult for me to spontaneously indulge myself with Afternoon Tea here.”

“You’d have to thank Anathema for that little miracle,” he explains as they settle down. Crowley recognizes her persistence does come in handy (when it’s not directed at him at least.) He can practically hear her buttering up the receptionist about “Allowing renowned stage actor Anthony J. Crowley to dine at their fine establishment.” He’s usually not a fan of her pulling the “celebrity” card for him but as he watches Aziraphale smile brighter than the glass chandeliers of The Ritz, he decides not to complain about her methodology.

“Well, I’ll be sure to do that the next time I see her. You must be very pleased to have her working for you,” he comments.

“Yep, she’s got a good head on her shoulders, that one. Never saw the point of having an assistant before but I’ll admit she’s made things easier. Just don’t tell her I told you that. Don’t need her getting a swelled head on me,” he quips (but not really).

Aziraphale makes a zipping motion across his mouth. “Mum’s the word then. Although, is there a particular reason you changed your mind about needing help?”

Crowley makes a sort of nonsensical noise. “Ohh, you can say the opportunity to hire Anathema just sort of... jumped out in front of me.” The blonde tilts his head expectantly for him to be a tad less vague. “Or, more specifically, it crossed the intersection without looking and hit the front bumper of my Bentley.”

“What?” Aziraphale asks in disbelief, eyes widening.

“Okay, it’s not as bad as it sounds,” he promptly assures. “I just, y’know, nicked her is all and she was fine... Her bike wasn’t so lucky,” he adds bluntly. “Anyways, while I helped her up I saw a few job listings scattered about and realized I threw a real wrench in her plans. So, I made sure her bike got fixed up, with new gears mind you, offered her a job, and got myself a new assistant. The fact that she was competent was a stroke of pure luck.”

Aziraphale lets out a relieved laugh. ”Then perhaps I should be a little grateful for your vehicular faux pas. If not we wouldn’t be sitting here.”

“_Oh, you have no idea_,” he thinks as he smiles fondly at him. “I guess so.”

As they scan through their menus, Crowley peeks over to see Aziraphale, now donning a pair of bifocals, pensively deliberating his options; a pale knuckle resting on his plush lower lip—

His blue eyes flick over to Crowley who quickly turns his attention back to his own menu. “Craving anything in particular?” Aziraphale wonders politely, oblivious to the thespian’s wanton gaze.

_Nothing on the menu, apparently._ “Not sure,” he answers laxly. “Got any recommendations?”

“The crepes are absolutely divine and they’re served with a wonderful strawberry coulis. They are the best I’ve had since the ones I tried in Paris,” the bibliophile gushes. “Although, personally, I would like some oysters as a starter.”

“Huh, never eaten an oyster before,” he hums as he sips his wine.

Aziraphale raises his eyebrows in surprise. “Oh, well, then can I tempt you to try some,” he suggests chipperly.

The thespian smiles softly at his eagerness. How could he possibly say no to him?

As they wait for their food to arrive, Aziraphale, at Crowley’s behest, describes the time he spent in France for a semester studying abroad. “...My French was quite limited but I did manage to get by with ‘I don’t speak French’ and ‘where is the nearest restaurant?’,” he retells. “Aside from the wonderful cuisine, I did love the museums as well. The Louvre was as magnificent as the pictures! Although there was an incident where one of my classmates left the flash on their camera. He only received a warning but at the time, I was completely mortified thinking the Mona Lisa would completely disintegrate before our eyes,” he giggles, which Crowley reciprocates. “Have you ever been there?”

“Nah. I went to Paris once with my theater group for a weekend but it definitely wasn’t for the sightseeing.”

“Ah, I see. I do hope you get to see it one day,” he smiles. Aziraphale imagines Crowley would look quite lovely illuminated by the lights of the Eiffel Tower.

“_Maybe the next time I go you’ll be there to show me around..._” his mind conjures, afraid it’d be too brash to vocally suggest. “Yeah, hopefully, some other time.”

The waiter finally comes by and sets a silver basin between the two, their shucked oysters arranged in two concentric circles on top of grated ice. “Oh my, these do look marvelous,” Aziraphale notes excitedly.

Crowley tries not to pull a face at the sight of the slimy creatures. “Kind of reminds me of something out of _Alien_, doesn’t it? You sure they’re not going to lodge an ovipositor down my throat, Aziraphale?” he asks jokingly but the bibliophile seems to perceive his subtle aversion.

Aziraphale chuckles lightly. “I can assure you that’s never happened to me before. Though they can be a little daunting the first time around,” he sympathizes. “But you really don’t have to try them for my sake.”

“Nooo, s’fine. What’s life without a little experimentation,” he says, trying to play it off smoothly. “I mean they’re considered aphrodisiacs so how bad can they be?” he teasingly remarks with an eyebrow waggle causing Aziraphale to snort a little.

“Unfortunately, there’s not much evidence to support that theory. It’s more likely that their, uh, yonic appearance contributed to their association with increased libido.”

Crowley sarcastically huffs, “Well that’s a crying shame.” He grabs one of the foreign critters and inspects it unsure of how to approach it.

Aziraphale observes his hesitation and decides to assist. “Here. If I may demonstrate?” The bibliophile delicately grabs a chilled mollusk of his own, adding a small dollop of mignonette sauce.

Crowley observes in hidden awe as Aziraphale brings the silvery shell to his lips and slurps the succulent, beige flesh into his mouth. The blonde hums with delight as he gingerly dabs off the briny water dribbling down his chin and Crowley has to avert his eyes momentarily to suppress the impure thoughts currently running through his head. _Evidence be damned that those snotty buggers aren’t aphrodisiacs!_

“See there’s nothing to it really,” Aziraphale encourages.

“Er, right,” he agrees as he prepares his oyster. “Bottoms up,” he cheers before gulping down the shellfish. The thespian gnaws at the tender meat thoughtfully, the mild saltiness balanced nicely by an acidic tang. “Huh, not bad. Certainly fresher than any ‘yonic’ thing I’ve ever tasted,” he notes impishly.

Aziraphale covers his mouth trying to suppress his martini from spilling out as he is racked with laughter. “Well, that’s certainly an eloquent way to put it,” he remarks breathlessly.

Oh, Crowley does like making him laugh...

The two continue enjoying their meal, happily exchanging stories between each other. All the while, Crowley can’t help but gaze at Aziraphale as he primly munches on his meal with such gusto that no crumb is left unappreciated.

The bibliophile brings the linen napkin to gently wipe the corners of his lips. “That was scrumptious,” he sighs with a sated belly.

“Glad to hear it.” He waves down their waiter to bring over the bill, albeit a bit reluctantly. “So, uh, do you have any plans after this?”

“Nothing in specific really. Just thought I’d return to the bookshop and relax a bit.”

“Well... if it’s not too much to ask, I was hoping I could maybe get a tour of your bookshop. If you want that is...“ Even with his shades on, he averts his eyes keeping them glued to the pristine table cloth.

Aziraphale is taken aback by his request and stammers, “I—yes, of course, I’d be glad to!”

The thespian looks up to see Aziraphale’s gleeful expression and it makes his heart melt. “Alright.” He signs for the bill and the two start making their way out of the dining hall. “Come along then, Mr. Fell. The evening is still young and your chariot awaits.”

“Thank you, kind sir. Although, do promise not to hit any pedestrians with said chariot,” he requests with a slight smirk on his lips.

Crowley throws his head back to laugh. “Oh-ho, getting snippy on me already!” He pulls down his glasses a smidge. “I’ve gotta say I like where this is headed,” he winks, making Aziraphale squeak in his throat.

The blushing man follows Crowley sauntering towards the exit, hips swinging and thumbs hooked in his pockets.

Admittedly, Aziraphale likes where this is heading too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey y’all, just wanted to let you know the next chapter is going to be a little different. I want to make it with more vignettes because I have a bunch of cute moments planned out but that aren't really long enough to be their own chapters. The upside is that it’ll probably be longer but it might take longer to put out. I hope you guys don’t mind >_<


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Compilation of tooth-rotting fluffy moments :D
> 
> For clarity, asterisks are longer jumps in time than dashes.

Of the many things Crowley had been growing fond of in the past few weeks, spending his spare time at the cozy little bookshop in Soho was certainly at the top. He liked being among the clutter of antique books and knick-knacks, hidden away from the bustling world outside. He liked the smell of dusty parchment and the comforting warmth that enveloped him. He very much liked its sweet owner welcoming him a beaming smile every time he walked through the door..

At this particular moment, he is enjoying said owner’s company and that of a bottle of Rémy Martin. As they sit on Aziraphale’s chesterfield, Crowley heatedly slurs, “Lemme tell you, this wanker had the _nerve_ to tell me if I wanted the part, I had to get a haircut first. Said nobody would take me seriously lookin’ like a— like some sort of rejected rock star.” His hands gesticulating flamboyantly as he retells his story. “Can you believe that?”

“Absolute poppycock,” Aziraphale tipsily agrees offended for him; the apples of his cheeks profuse with a rosy tint and his usually prim demeanor reduced to a relaxed slouch.

“Right! Anyways, I says to him, I says, ‘Mr. Hastur, I’ll cut my hair when I’m good and ready. ‘Sides, it’d be a real shame. Your mum quite likes it at this length.’” He starts cackling at the memory and Aziraphale is thrown into a fit of giggles. Crowley clutches onto his stomach as he wheezes, “Oh, the look on his face was priceless. It was worth losing that bloody role over.”

The bibliophile wipes a tear from the corner of his eye as he catches his breath. “Well, it was his loss anyways _and_ you proved him wrong because, well, I thought your long hair was magnificent! N-not that I don’t like it now,” he hurriedly asserts. “I just, I thought it made you look...” _Stunning. Beautiful._ “...unique! Unlike, anyone on the stage. Like a, uh, a diamond in the ruff so to speak,” he rambles bashfully.

Crowley is thankful he can blame the cognac sloshing in his system for the redness creeping up to his cheeks. “All the more reason I’m glad I didn’t listen to that dickhead. Although, he certainly wasn’t the last one I had to deal with in my career.” He gestures vaguely around the room. “See you got it good here! Don’t have to answer to anyone.”

Aziraphale chuckles at his compliment. “I guess you’re right. Although, I wasn’t always so lucky. Before I opened shop, I worked at a newspaper company as a columnist. I-I did like the work but the environment itself was restrictive,” he explains with a bit of a frown. “Could never get a word in with any of the higher-ups, especially my editor in chief, Gabriel. He was, well, he was a bit of a, not to be rude—“

“An arsehole,” Crowley supplements for him.

“Yes, very much so,” he titters.

“Eh, you were probably too good for them any-how,” he burps. “So, what made you want to spread your wings?”

“Oh, that, it was because of my grandfather, actually...” Crowley catches the wistful expression on Aziraphale’s face as he runs his thumb along the rim of his glass. “After my mother passed away, he raised me by himself and... he always believed I could do more with my life than just follow orders. So, I quit that job and invested everything I had to open this place up.” He glances down at the amber liquid. “He used to spend hours reading to me in his library so it only seemed fitting that I dedicated the ‘Co.’ to him... Just wish he had gotten the chance to see it.

Crowley swallows thickly. “M’sorry...”

Aziraphale instantly tries to pep himself. “No need to be, dear boy. If anything I should apologize for ruining our jolly mood.”

Crowley tsks at him and scolds, “Don’t be daft... M’glad you told me. I like learning more about you... good or bad.”

His morose expression finally is lightened with a tender smile. “I like it too... Uh, I mean learning about you, not me. Obviously. I know me. That wouldn’t make much sense would it,” he sputters.

The thespian laughs at his expense and lightly pats Aziraphale’s shoulder, leaving a pleasant tingly sensation in its wake. “I figured. I am _very_ interesting,” he quips sarcastically.

“_Yes, you are..._” Aziraphale compliments internally as he takes a sip from his glass.

***

“Okay, that’s it, Aziraphale. I’m taking you to a music festival. No ifs, ands, or buts about it. How can someone as clever as you be so musically ignorant?” Crowley berates as they walk along St. James Park. It had been a particularly warm day and the two thought it best to grab some icy treats during their outing.

Aziraphale makes a sound of indignation. “I resent that statement,” he pouts huffily. “I know plenty about music!”

“Ohhh, really? Because I can assure you if you lined up everyone in the whole world and asked them to describe _The Velvet Underground_, nobody _at all_ would say ‘bebop’.”

The bibliophile rolls his eyes at him. “Alright, I’ll admit my tastes are a bit antiquated.”

“And there’s nothing wrong with that but you’ve gotta, y’know, expand your horizons. It’s for your own good.”

“Fine. I’ll go to a festival if you accompany me to the opera one of these days,” he bargains. “It’s only fair.”

Crowley grumbles a bit but, at this point, he’d go anywhere as long as Aziraphale was there. “You’ve got yourself a deal,” he acquiesces, playfully tapping Aziraphale’s nose with his ice lolly.

The bibliophile flinches at the cold and giggles, “People normally shake on deals, you wily old thing.”

Crowley lets out a choked sound as Aziraphale instinctively wipes away the artificially red drop and licks it off his thumb with a swift swirl of his tongue. _Well, that fucking backfired._

Aziraphale lifts an eyebrow at him. “What, is there still some left?”

The thespian shakes his head. “Nope, no, you’re good,” he answers with a bit of a voice crack. “Sorry for going off on you there. Can get a little heated sometimes.”

“Oh, no worries. I think it’s nice that you’re as passionate about music as you are about acting.”

“To tell you the truth music is one of the reasons I got into acting.” A faint nostalgic smile forms on his lips as he continues, “I remember seeing Queen on the telly playing at Wembley Stadium and just wanting to be like Freddie Mercury in front of all those people...” _Just wanting to be seen in general._ “I guess you can say the stage was calling me from then on.”

Aziraphale gives him a reassuring smile. “Well... I’m glad you answered.”

***

Bliss. That’s the word Crowley would use to describe how he felt in Aziraphale’s presence.

It was driving down a country road with emerald fields on each side. It was autumn tree lines painted on the horizon like a Monet. It was soft breezes from an open car window rustling through platinum and auburn tresses. It was just everything good the world could offer...

“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” Aziraphale asks admiring the view.

Crowley glances over at him, appreciating that sweet smile of contentment and how his powder blue jumper makes his eyes look even brighter.

Pure, unadulterated bliss.

“Yeah, it is...”

As they enter the town of Tadfield, they are met with the sight of quaint houses in every direction. After a few turns, they reach their destination as they come up to a lovely cottage with a horseshoe nailed on the doorway.

“Oh my, Miss Anathema does have a lovely home,” Aziraphale comments as he exits the car with a brown grocery bag. She had kindly invited the pair over for dinner to celebrate her recent engagement so he thought it best if he came bearing a gift.

“It’ll be nice,” she had promised when she brought the idea up with Crowley. “It’ll be like a double date.”

“So help me God, Anathema Device, if you refer to it as a ‘double date’ in front of Aziraphale you are fired,” he snarled menacingly.

Anathema rolled her eyes dismissively at his empty threat. “So does that mean you’ll bring him?”

Crowley pursed his lip angrily before throwing his hands up. “Obviously, I am!”

Before they can make their way up to the house, they get distracted by a yapping noise getting closer to them and unintelligible yelling. Suddenly, a black and white dog appears and approaches Aziraphale. “Oh, hello there,” he greets nervously trying to gently discourage him from jumping on and dirtying his khakis.

“Dog, no time to play! We have to hide,” his owner instructs picking him up as three more children appear from behind, huffing and puffing.

In the distance, an older gentleman’s voice calls out. “Adam Young, you and your friends best go apologize for the mess you’ve made or your parents will be hearing about it!”

The children, quickly duck behind Crowley’s car, shushing each other. “Oy, what are you—“

“Shh!” They hiss in tandem, catching Crowley off guard and amusing Aziraphale.

Suddenly an old man appears near the driveway. “Excuse me. R.P. Tyler, Tadfield Neighborhood Watch. Have you two gentlemen seen any children running by here by any chance?”

Aziraphale starts to bumble, “N-no! Well, we've seen plenty out and about but, perhaps, if you were more specific, we could assist—“

“Three boys, a girl, and a cute, little dog?” Crowley asks stoically.

“Yes, that’s them! Where’d they go?”

There’s a palpable pause where the children (and even Aziraphale) think that he’s going to turn them in. However, Crowley points in the opposite direction and hums, “That way. Although I would get a move on if I were you. They’ve got a two-minute head start.”

Mr. Tyler thanks them for their help and quickly shuffles away to “reprimand” Them.

Once he’s gone, the kids let out a sigh of relief as they start getting up. “Thank you, misters, and sorry for the trouble,” the first boy apologizes, setting his dog back down.

“No, worries,” Aziraphale assures. “Seems you’ve gotten yourselves in a bit of jam.”

“Sort of,” he admits holding a bundle of varying flowers, some with a few petals short now. “We were picking them out of the gardens around the neighborhood and Mr. Tyler caught us.”

“Which wouldn’t have happened if Wensleydale had kept quiet,” the girl chimes in accusingly.

The boy with glasses defends, “How did you expect me to keep quiet when I had a worm stuck down the back of my shirt, Pepper.” The boy with a stained shirt snickers at him, seemingly the perpetrator of that little trick. “Oh, ha ha, very funny, Brian.”

“So, you were all in the gardens together?” Crowley presses with his arms crossed and they nod in response, thinking he’s going to lecture them. “No wonder you got caught. Rule number one of mischief: always have a lookout.”

They giggle a bit and Adam answers, “We’ll keep that in mind next time.”

“I thought I heard somebody out here,” Anathema calls as she steps out of the house wearing a black shirtwaist dress. They all greet her and The Them are the first to meet her in the yard. “What are you guys up to?”

“Well, we were going to surprise you and Newt but...” Adam holds out their illicitly arranged bouquet. “It didn’t turn out as we planned.”

Regardless, Anathema takes the frumpy flowers with a touched smile. “Awe, thank you, guys. I’ll make sure to put these in a vase.” She looks over to see Aziraphale and Crowley coming up from behind. “Guys, this is my boss, Crowley, and his friend, Aziraphale. Although, it seems you guys have gotten acquainted already.”

The Them nod and give her a quick rundown of their misadventure.

“Well seeing as you have to hang low, do you guys wanna come inside for a bit? The cookies should be ready soon.” Brian is the first to accept and the rest soon follow. “Great! We'll have a full house then.”

As everyone, including Dog, starts making their way into the house, Pepper walks along Crowley and briskly tugs his jacket sleeve. “Mr. Crowley, can I ask you something?”

He quirks an eyebrow at her but complies, “Uh, yeah, I suppose.”

“Do you think you can run over _my_ bike?" she requests quite candidly. "My parents got me a bike with a _basket_," she emphasizes with disgust, "so I could use a reason to get a new one."

Aziraphale tries to hide his smile and Crowley glares at a smug Anathema. He turns his attention back to Pepper and shrugs, appreciating her spunkiness. “As much as I’d love to have an excuse to destroy private property, I could probably just have someone take the pesky thing off. Maybe get it a new paint job even,” he proposes.

Pepper’s face lights at the prospect. “Red with yellow hot rod flames would be nice.”

“Well, he does know where to get them fixed, so I’m sure your velocipede will be left in tip-top shape,” Aziraphale remarks only slightly poking fun at the thespian.

But, of course, Crowley lets it slide.

—

By the time the sun had set, The Them had departed with bellies full of sweets, leaving the adults to enjoy their dinner, the bottle of Bordeaux that Aziraphale had brought, and some wholesome conversations.

“Thank you both again for having us and for that impeccable Beef Wellington, Newton,” Aziraphale praises as they start making their leave.

“Thanks, ‘Thema. Thanks, Newt.”

“You’re welcome, it was our pleasure,” Newton responds, shaking each of their hands after Anathema hugs them goodbye.

They walk them out to the porch and give the unlikely pair a few last waves as they walk back to the car.

“Well, that went nicer than expected,” Newton comments wrapping his arm around his fiancée’s shoulder. “I was expecting Crowley to be... pricklier.” He didn’t have many interactions with Anathema’s boss except for the occasional nods of acknowledgment when he dropped Anathema off sometimes. Needless to say, he was surprised his demeanor toward him didn’t scream “Don’t you dare talk to me” and more like “Meh, I guess you could”.

Anathema leans her head against his shoulder. “Yep, but we can probably thank Aziraphale for that. Did you see them during dinner? They’re completely hopeless for each other.”

“Mhm.” They watch as the car finally pulls away into the night. “Who do you think’ll make the first move?”

“Hm, probably Aziraphale,” she postulates. “He was the one that reached out first and Crowley can be as useless as a sack of potatoes when it comes to romance.”

Newton chuckles, “I dunno...” He flashes back to the way Crowley leaned it to every word Aziraphale spoke, similar to the way he does with Anathema. “I wouldn’t wager against him just yet.”

Anathema gives him a sly smirk. “Really? Would you be willing to bet twenty pounds on it?”

***

Just when Aziraphale thought it wasn’t humanly possible for Crowley to be more beautiful, the universe decides to prove him wrong. The bibliophile was already awestruck by how handsome he looked in his winter attire. The black turtleneck sweater and vermillion scarf tucked underneath his black trench coat making him look like he was cut from a fashion magazine. However, when they step out of the cinema after enjoying a showing of _It’s a Wonderful Life_, Aziraphale gets a little Christmas miracle of his own. He is helplessly dazzled as delicate, ivory flakes start floating down to powder over him. He is enamored by the way they glisten underneath the fairy lights decorating the shops, brilliantly contrasting the flames of his head. Even the way his breath mystically billows out from his lips and nostrils like a dragon captivates the poor bookshop keeper.

Crowley shoves his gloved hands underneath each armpit, trying to retain as much heat as he can. Normally, he wouldn’t go out in weather like this. In fact, winters make him awfully miserable. The cold made his joints hurt and his skin dry out and trying to do anything productive was near to impossible some days. Yet, when he sees how adorable Aziraphale looks with a pink nose, fluffy white earmuffs and a tartan scarf... when he catches him staring at him with a tenderness no other living being could match... it warms the actor to his core.

Well, almost.

“Let’s go, Aziraphale. I’m freezing my scrawny arse off here,” he grumbles with a shiver.

The bibliophile chuckles a bit as they start making their way back to the Bentley. “Alright then, let’s see if there’s anywhere warm that is still open. I am feeling a bit peckish at the moment,” he admits cheerfully

—

“So... Remember that you insisted you didn’t want a gift for the holidays? ...That you said my company would be enough?” Crowley questions tentatively as they sit adjacent to each other at the lunch counter of a diner.

The blonde turns his head with raised eyebrows and finishes chewing his apple crisp before answering, “Yes, I did say that...“

Crowley plucks out a rectangular package from inside his coat and places it on the counter. “Well, I decided to respectfully ignore that ridiculous notion of yours so... Merry Christmas.”

The bewildered man swivels in his stool as he bemoans, “Oh, Crowley, you didn’t have to—“

“Yes. I did,” he interjects firmly. “You got me a custom gift basket for crying out loud,” he reminds. Crowley nearly imploded with affection when the bibliophile presented him with a wicker basket carefully arranged with his favorite merlot, fine bath salts, scented candles, a pair of grey slippers and a gift card to a local spa. “Not just that... You’ve given me so much more and never expect anything in return. You deserve it...”

Aziraphale meekly looks down at his fidgeting hands. He murmurs, “B-but for me... the time we spend together is worth all of that combined. I couldn’t possibly ask for more...”

“Then don’t... You shouldn’t have to ask for anything. I am more than willing to show you how much your friendship means to me.” He doesn’t want to keep taking. He wants to give. He wants to _indulge_ him through every means at his disposal... Crowley slides the present closer to his guardian angel with an apprehensive smile. “So will you shut up and take the damn gift already.”

Aziraphale lets out a choked laugh through the lump in his throat as he finally dares to meet his obscured gaze. He hesitantly grabs it and examines the brown wrapping paper adorned with a candy-striped twine and a hanging tag decorated with holly berries reading:

_To: A.Z. Fell _

_From: Pine Tree in Sunglasses ;)_

“Anathema?” he wonders amusedly which earns an affirmative groan. Unsurprisingly, the bibliophile meticulously peels each piece of tape to preserve the integrity of the decoration. He slides out the contents and his eyes comically bulge out. “Crowley,” he gasps, ogling at the first edition copy of _The Importance of Being Earnest_ in his hands.

“You might want to open it up,” Crowley instructs.

The bibliophile does as he’s told and covers his mouth to stifle the embarrassing squeal about to breach his throat when he sees “Oscar Wilde” scrawled on the front page. “I— I’ve never been able to find a signed copy of his work. How did you manage to find this?” he asks giddily.

“I called up my old acting coach. He’s a huge sucker for theatre memorabilia so he pulled a few strings for me. I know he’s your favorite author and I thought... why not.”

Tears start prickling behind his eyes; his heart swelling to the point that it physically hurts and he’s just so... happy. But he knows it’s more than joy that he’s being consumed by... It’s love. Unbridled and unruly _love_ that envelops every inch of his being; he a mere wick at the mercy of its incendiary nature.

In a flash, warm arms are wrapped around Crowley’s torso and feathery tufts of hair tickle his jawline. _Oh... Oh fuck, he’s hugging me! He’s hugging me and he smells amazing and... he’s so fucking warm_.

“Thank you,” Aziraphale sighs into the crook of Crowley’s neck helplessly overwhelmed by the scent of cologne and a smidge of sage incense clinging to him. “You don’t know how much this means to me...”

Crowley finally thinks to react as he sheepishly wraps his hand around his soft form. “You’re welcome, Aziraphale,” he whispers breathlessly, wishing he could stop time so this moment could last longer...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapters will resume with their normal format and ohhh get ready to buckle in!


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oof, this chapter was a roller coaster to write and will probably be one to read as well. Sooo, I’m just going to hide in my fallout bunker… Tata!
> 
> TW: Mentions of emotional abuse and symptoms of PTSD stemming from it

For Aziraphale, rainy days constitute some of his favorite things. The soft pitter-patter of raindrops thrumming against glass window panes. The warmth of his favorite wool, tan cardigan and a cup of hot cocoa. The scent of petrichor that lingers even after the clouds subside. On this particularly drizzly day, however, there is more to be grateful for.

As he finishes clearing up the till he hears the front doorbell jingle. “So sorry but we’re closed,” he calls out.

“God, I really hope that doesn’t apply to me,” Crowley’s voice retorts.

The bibliophile immediately perks up and makes his way to the front. “Of course not, you know the doors are always open...” His voice trails as he’s met with the sight of Crowley standing there holding a pink pastry box, water droplets rolling down his hair like morning dew off of rose petals.

“Forgot my umbrella,” he admits with an annoyed huff. “Partially cloudy my arse. Fortunately, your dessert is still safe and sound,” he assures wiping off some moisture off the waxed cardboard with his sleeve.

Aziraphale takes the box from him with an appreciative grin. “Oh, Crowley, thank you for bringing me this but you didn’t have to go through the trouble.”

Crowley makes a dismissive noise. “It was no big deal, really. Rehearsals finished early and I had time to swing by the bakery you mentioned you wanted to try.”

“But your hair and jacket are completely soaked through. You must be awfully uncomfortable,” he notes.

“Eh, I’ll live don’t worry about me.”

“Oh, pish-posh, you came all this way through the rain to visit. I should at least get you warmed up.” Before Crowley can object, Aziraphale turns on his heels. “Come along, let’s head upstairs!”

“Upstairs?” Crowley asks, befuddled.

“Yes, to fetch you some dry clothes and to enjoy these treats with some tea,” he explains matter-of-factly.

“I, uh, okay. I guess,” he stammers a little at his proposal. The thespian follows him up the stairs and down a short corridor with a single door. Truthfully, he hadn’t been in this section of the building, considering Aziraphale practically lives downstairs anyway.

After he unlocks the door, Aziraphale motions courteously. “After you.”

Crowley nods and compliantly steps inside of the flat that was just so... _Aziraphale_. Homey and welcoming. Modest yet tidy, well, especially in comparison to the bookshop below.

“May I take your jacket?” Aziraphale asks kindly.

“Er, yeah.” He strips off the damp fabric and hands it to him, leaving him in his equally damp Henley.

The bibliophile shuffles to the end of the room and gently lays the garment over the radiator near the window. “That should leave it nice and toasty in no time. In the meantime, let’s finish drying you off.”

Crowley awkwardly idles back while Aziraphale migrates to his bedroom. Out of view, he hears the scrape of clothes hangers as he browses through his wardrobe closet and a little “Aha!” when he presumably finds a piece that would suffice.

“I can’t promise that this shirt will be to your fit but it should be comfortable regardless.” He steps back into the lounge and announces, “I’ve laid it out on the bed with a fresh towel so you can use the bedroom for privacy.”

Crowley snorts, “Aziraphale, you do realize you’ve already gotten a front-row seat to my half-naked body, right?”

Aziraphale blushes at the recollection and sputters, “Well, y-yes, I know but that was different. It wasn’t a... private demonstration.”

The thespian barks out laugh of amusement. “Alright Mr. Fell, since you insist on preserving my decency I’ll have to refrain from tempting you with the striptease I had planned,” he quips moseying into the room with exaggerated sways of his hips, leaving the blonde with a burning face.

Crowley closes the door behind him, the reality of where he is finally hitting him. In front of him is a plush, full-sized bed where his promised amenities await. He sits at the foot of it and glides his hands over the cream comforter, mind wandering to the image of Aziraphale, cozily tucked in and completely invested in a book of his choice. It wanders to his serene face while he is deep in slumber; soft enough to place a gentle kiss on his brow...

Crowley shakes those thoughts away and proceeds with the task at hand, finally discarding his moist shirt and foggy sunglasses. He runs the white towel embroidered with golden vines over his clammy skin and hair before dabbing the condensation off of his shades to put them back on. He grabs Aziraphale’s white dress shirt and goes to the mirror in the corner of the room. As he buttons himself up, his eyes capture a set of picture frames sitting on the dresser through the reflection; one of which looks very familiar.

He walks over and upon further inspection, he sees it’s a framed photo booth strip of them that they had taken at a street fair.

“Crowley, please take some with me!” Aziraphale begged, ushering him toward the photo booth.

“You know I absolutely _hate_ having my picture taken,” he groaned.

“Oh, don’t be so dramatic,” he chided, realizing what he just said when Crowley gave him the have-you-even-met-me look. Still, he insisted, “It’ll be fun! And we’ll get a little memento out of it.”

He threw his head back and let out an exasperated, “Ugghh, fine,” even though he knew full-well he could never really deny him anything. As they filed into the cramped stall, Crowley jabbed, “Y’know, you can be a real brat sometimes.”

“Dear boy, I do believe that’s like the kettle calling the pot black,” he sassed with a cheeky smirk.

Crowley smiles at the memory and the sequence of pictures. The first is of Aziraphale smiling while Crowley flips off the camera. The second is of Aziraphale’s annoyed reaction while Crowley smiles as if he had done nothing wrong. The third is Aziraphale snatching Crowley’s sunglasses off of his stunned face. The fourth was the bibliophile donning his shades with folded arms as he smugly grinned at the camera while the thespian laughed hysterically. The last frame was Crowley’s favorite: it was just them smiling at each other. No shades, no barrier... just them.

In front of the framed picture, Crowley spots a seashell trinket tray with a single pearl laying in it... Annette’s pearl to be exact. He reaches out to gently roll it under his fingertip, moved that Aziraphale has a space dedicated to him among the rest of his memories.

Crowley looks at the picture to the right, one of a younger Aziraphale in a cap and gown proudly standing next to an older gentleman, undoubtedly his grandfather, who has the same eyes and smile as him hidden underneath prominent wrinkles. To the left, is one of a little boy riding his tricycle and Crowley (almost) lets out an audible “aww” as he realizes that it is indeed Aziraphale too. The tiny blonde’s beaming smile is missing a front tooth but it is undeniably him. He is wearing khaki shorts, black doll shoes with white knee-high socks, and a yellow sweater vest with navy blue diamonds that matched his cute bowtie. The thespian isn’t surprised that even back then he had a dapper sense of style, probably inspired by his then younger grandfather supervising from the stoop porch.

Crowley’s line of sight finally reaches the last picture on the far left: a Polaroid of a young woman holding a sleeping baby in a blue onesie with white wings stitched on the back. He notes the way her feathered platinum hair frames her slender face, the slight upturn of her nose much like her son’s and the sweet smile that apparently carries through every generation of the Felton family. Another detail he notices is the golden ring she wears on her index finger... the same one that now adorns Aziraphale’s pinky. Even more heart-wrenching is the cursive caption written underneath reading, “**_Mummy & Her Angel_**”.

A wave of sadness suddenly washes over Crowley as he yearningly stares at the tender manner she cradles her son against her chest, lovingly gazing down at him with sparkling teal eyes. As if he were the most precious thing in the world... The way a mother is _supposed_ to look at her child. With all the love she can offer, not with disdain or bitterness. Not as if they were some sort of burden to her...

He jumps a bit at the rapping on the door. “Everything alright, Crowley? If the shirt is not to your liking feel free to look for something else,” he offers graciously.

“S’fine, Aziraphale. Be out in a minute.”

He hears a high-pitched whistling in the background and Aziraphale remarks, “Oh, perfect timing then. I’ll have the tea ready when you come out.”

“Thanks.” As soon as he hears his footsteps recede, Crowley pushes his hair back as he tries to calm his racing thoughts. _Deep breath in, deep breath out._

Once he feels composed enough, he finishes adjusting his shirt and heads out to the living room. There he sees that Aziraphale has already arranged the colorful assortment of macarons on a porcelain tiered pastry stand and set it out on the cherry wood coffee table.

Aziraphale rounds the corner of the kitchenette with a gold tea tray, playfully humming a little tune. He basically stops in his tracks when he sees Crowley standing there with his ginger hair adorably fluffed out. As he suspected, the garment is considerably looser on his slender torso but with the sleeves rolled up and a few buttons unfastened at the top, he still looks devilishly handsome.

“What, do I look that bad?” he asks light-heartedly as he makes his way to the tartan upholstered loveseat.

“O-of course not. I was just thinking that that color suits you quite nicely,” he compliments, setting down the tray on the coffee table and sitting next to him. “Perhaps you should consider incorporating it more into your wardrobe.”

He chuckles a little. “I’ll do that when you start wearing anything remotely dark.”

“Now wouldn’t that be something,” he says amusedly, delicately plucking a few morsels from the stand onto his plate.

Crowley tries to keep his mind at ease by listening to Aziraphale’s voice as he chatters away. He tries his best to focus on his bubbly smile as he savors each flavor he tastes... Tries his damn best to keep those dark memories at bay but—

_“When will you learn to listen to me, Anthony?”_

“Crowley?”

“Huh, s-sorry you were saying something?”

“I was saying you must try one. The raspberry filled with mango curd has been my favorite thus far,” he recommends happily.

“I— no, thanks. I’m fine with just the tea,” he responds, taking a sip of Earl Grey to make his point.

“Oh, alright.” Aziraphale finds his answer a tad odd since, despite not having much of a sweet tooth, Crowley at the least samples some of his treats. However, he decides not to press a seemingly trivial matter and continues to run at the mouth about his week.

Silently though, Crowley is spiraling. He knows he is falling into the rabbit hole of his mind and he’s desperately trying to anchor himself. _Calm down. You’re here with Aziraphale. You’re not back in that hellhole... You’re not with _Her. His mind doesn’t seem to cooperate as an image of hazel eyes brimming with fury hits him.

_“If you can’t abide by my rules then just get out! GET OUT!”_

Crowley’s hand spasms causing him to spill warm liquid onto his lap. “Shit!”

“Oh my, are you alright?” Aziraphale exclaims.

“Peachy keen,” he huffs, carefully putting down Aziraphale’s fine China on the table.

The bibliophile gets up in a heartbeat to grab him a dishtowel from the kitchen. He comes back and graciously extends it toward him. “Here you go.” Crowley grumbles out a thanks but as he reaches out to take the towel, Aziraphale notices his hand is shaking. While the thespian dabs the cloth onto his jeans, the bibliophile rejoins him on the couch and decides to tentatively press, “Are you sure you’re okay, Crowley? You seem a little... on edge.”

“M’fine...” he murmurs, not looking up from his task.

Not satisfied, Aziraphale continues, “You know if something is bothering you, you can tell me—“

“Jesus, I said I’m _fine_,” he snaps, only realizing the bite his words held when a flash of hurt crosses Aziraphale’s face. “I— Shit, I shouldn’t have lashed out at you... M’sorry.”

He gives a comprehensive little nod as he fold his hands together. “I am sorry too. I shouldn’t have insisted.”

“No, no, don’t you dare apologize to me. You haven’t done anything wrong except _care_,” he rants, clutching the poor dish rag like a vice. “God, I feel so stupid.”

The bibliophile’s eyebrows furrow with concern. He carefully reaches out and squeezes Crowley’s hand gently. “It certainly is not ‘stupid’ if you’re this upset, dear boy... It’s okay if you don’t want to talk about it but just know that I’m here for you...”

Crowley lets out a staggered exhalation as he loosens his death-grip under his soft touch. “I know you are Aziraphale... It’s just... bad memories resurfacing is all. Hasn’t happened in a while but— I don’t know I guess my brain decided to go on the fritz today,” he laughs humorlessly leaning his head back on the couch to focus on the ceiling instead.

Aziraphale draws soothing circles on the back of Crowley’s hand with his thumb. “Okay... Do you mind me asking of what exactly...?” He pauses carefully trying not to overstep.

He rubs his temple with his free hand and forlornly sighs, “My mum... Do you remember that I told you she wasn’t around anymore?”

“Yes...” The topic had once come up in passing but Crowley never cared to elaborate more than that and Aziraphale always assumed it must’ve been painful for him to talk about.

“Well... truth be told, I don’t really know where she is or if she’s even alive at this point. I haven’t seen or spoken to her in over twenty years,” he confesses. “Mummy dearest was always a Class A narcissist. To her... nothing I did was ever good enough. She’d blow up if I didn’t do things exactly as she wanted or if I even dared to question her in any way. Then one day we both just had enough of each other. She told me to leave and... I never looked back.”

Aziraphale watches as his Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows heavily. “Oh, Crowley... I’m so sorry that you went through that.”

Crowley shrugs, trying to be remiss. “It is what is. Fell on some hard times after that but, eventually, I worked my way through acting school and made something of myself. That’s why I feel so ridiculous about getting worked up again over a picture.” The words slip out before he can stop himself.

“What picture?” Aziraphale asks calmly.

He hesitates before answering, “The... the picture in your bedroom. Of you and your mum... I guess I got a little jealous when I saw it,” he chuckles dryly but feels on the brink of tears. “I just figured it must be nice for your own mother to look at you like you’re worth a damn...”

Aziraphale completely intertwines their hands together, sandwiching Crowley's gaunt hand between his. “Crowley, dear, look at me...”

Crowley blinks away his impending tears before slumping his head to the side to look at him.

The bibliophile sensitively requests, “I meant, can you really look at me?”

“Aziraphale, I...” he starts to protest but as he looks into those empathetic eyes, the words get lost. He uncertainly pulls off his shades and tucks them into his shirt pocket, suddenly feeling very vulnerable.

Aziraphale’s heart nearly breaks at the sight of those glassy eyes but he trudges on. “Now you listen here, Anthony J. Crowley... You are worthy.”

Crowley let’s out a broken sigh and closes his eyes. However, he feels a hand cup his cheek and they flicker open again to be met with Aziraphale’s tender expression.

“You’ve worked so hard to be the man that you are today. You’re such a wonderfully brilliant person, Crowley... It’s a shame that your mother never appreciated that but... _I _do. And— I know that’s not the same thing by any means and maybe it’ll never be enough but—“

His words morph into a muffled yelp as Crowley slots their lips together in a gentle kiss. It takes a moment for Aziraphale’s brain to catch up with what is occurring but when it does his shock ebbs away. His eyes droop close as he subtly moves his lips to match Crowley’s soft ministrations. _Oh my, his lips are delectable... _They part momentarily, only allowing a few centimeters to separate them as they dreamily stare at each other through half-lidded eyes before latching onto each other’s lips again.

Crowley quickly realizes that kissing Aziraphale is everything he could’ve ever imagined; sweet and more intoxicating than any scotch or wine in the world. His mouth becomes more insistent, nimbly swiping his tongue past the blonde’s sighing lips causing them both to shudder. As he licks into the irresistible warmth of his mouth, he gathers the faint taste of sugary meringue and dammit if he doesn’t want to devour him wholly at this moment. In a haste, he slings his slender legs to straddle Aziraphale’s lap and drapes his arms over his shoulders.

“C-Crowley,” Aziraphale gasps before being drowned by another ardent kiss. His hands roam down to rest on Crowley’s back, helplessly pawing at the fabric as he relinquishes himself to every dizzying sensation.

“Aziraphale...” Crowley manages to pant between desperate kisses, running his fingers through cottony tufts. _You are enough. You are more than enough. You are everything to me but..._ The dark thoughts start rearing their ugly heads again and his movements begin still. _I’m being selfish... I’m taking. I’m—_

He abruptly tugs himself away from Aziraphale’s lip, eyes wide with unease. “I’m sorry...” he mutters.

“What?” Aziraphale asks breathlessly.

“I shouldn’t have— I have to go.” Crowley clambers off of a very confused Aziraphale and slides on his sunglasses before rushing to collect his jacket.

“Wait, Crowley, h-hold on a moment,” the bibliophile pleads as he gets up from his seat. “Why are you—“

“Thanks for everything, Aziraphale,” he blurts agitatedly. “I just— I really have to go.”

Before he can get another word in, Crowley dashes out the door not even bothering to close it on his way out. When he can no longer hear his frantic footsteps, Aziraphale pitifully whispers, “Pip-pip then...” He glumly plunks down on the couch trying to understand what just happened. He brings his fingers to his lips, the feeling of Crowley’s still lingering like a ghost and the severity of the situation dawns on him. “Oh... _Fuck_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author’s notes/extra analysis: So, I purposefully made no mentions of Crowley or Aziraphale’s fathers because I wanted to parallel their relationship with their mothers to their individual relationship with God. Aziraphale didn’t really get know his mother but he’s always had faith in her love for him while Crowley only felt the punishments and rejection of his own mother. Also, I envision Aziraphale’s grandfather to be like Metatron since he’s sort of his last connection to his mother. Thanks for coming to my TED Talk!
> 
> P.S. On a lighter note, the idea of a smol Aziraphale makes my heart melt so much I had to include it!


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Our bois get much needed advice from the women in their lives

In Mayfair, Anathema alternates between incessantly knocking on the door and buzzing the ornate doorbell outside of Crowley’s flat. “Crowley! Crowley, are you in there?”

No answer.

She groans as she begrudgingly plucks her phone out of her handbag to call him again. Anathema presses her ear to the door and hears “Wannabe” by the Spice Girls blaring somewhere inside the apartment. “_Well that’s just petty_,” she thinks, rolling her eyes at the fact that he associates her with that campy garbage he knows damn-well that she hates. She pounds on the door again, her patience running thin. “Crowley, you bastard, I know you’re in there! Open the door!”

Still nothing.

“Crowley, if you don’t answer the door in the next five seconds, I’ll call the cops to break it down.” She tries to be firm but as the silence continues to linger, panic starts setting in. “One... Two... Three—“

The door swings open and a disheveled Crowley appears only wearing a black t-shirt and grey sweatpants. Even before he speaks, Anathema gets a whiff of the alcohol on his breath. “See. ‘M alive, Device,” he slurs vaguely motioning to himself. “Now leave me to my business.”

Before he can shut the door on her, Anathema jams it with her black lace boot. “No, absolutely not,” she scolds sternly, crossing her arms at him. “You don’t get to turn me away like that!”

Crowley frowns at her through the cracked door. “Oh, come off it! I just wanted to be left alone for a few days! Why are you throwing a hissy fit?”

“Because I was worried about you, _asshole_!” Her eyebrows are knitted with anger but her umber eyes hold genuine concern. “You don’t answer my texts or calls. You don’t show up for rehearsal. I call Aziraphale and he tells me he hasn’t heard from you since you barged out of his apartment. What the hell was I supposed to think?”

Guilt starts seeping into Crowley as he realizes how inconsiderate he’s been. He scrubs his face ashamedly as he mumbles, “Sorry... Shit, apparently, I’ve only been making stupid decisions as of late...”

Anathema’s anger softens a bit but, of course, she’s relentless. Now that his defense is down, she pushes the door open and shoves her way past her boss. “Well, you can tell me all about your stupidities over a pot of coffee.”

The curls in her ponytail bounce as she strides with purpose toward the kitchen and Crowley decides it’s best not to get in her way.

—

Anathema hands him a mug of piping hot black coffee. “Drink,” she instructs bluntly before plopping next to him on his leather sofa. They sit in silence together as he swallows down the bitter liquid, waiting for his drunken haze to subside a bit.

He puts his empty mug down before perching his bare feet on his glass coffee table. “Thanks...”

“You can thank me by telling me what the hell happened,” she negotiates.

“‘Thema, please...” He folds his hands over his stomach as he curls into himself. However, she just stares at him stoically waiting for an explanation to his behavior. He huffily sighs, “I don’t want to talk ‘bout it. All you need to know is that I fucked up...”

“Well, I’m not in the mood for your vagueness,” she deadpans. “What is it? Did you and Aziraphale get into a fight? He didn’t go into detail either but... he was worried about you.”

He lets out a shaky sigh. “Of course, he would be. He’s an angel... But, no, we didn’t get into a fight. It... was kind of the opposite.”

His assistant lifts an eyebrow in confusion. “What does that even mean—“

“I _kissed _him, alright,” he blurts angrily. “I kissed him and he didn’t stop me and we snogged like a couple of teenagers on his couch and then I fucking_ ran_! Happy now? You got your answer,” he huffs, tugging at his hair in frustration.

Anathema blinks at him in shock. “Oh... That’s not what I was expecting to hear.” She reaches out to unscrew the bottle of Jack Daniel’s he left out and takes a quick swig. Not only is she out twenty quid, now she has to deal with her sad lump of a boss. “Okay, this isn’t an issue,” she coughs through her burning throat. “You two just have to sit down and have an adult conversation about your current situation.”

Crowley shakes his head. “I can’t...”

“Well, certainly not right now but when you’re sober and with a better mindset—“

“No, you don’t understand,” he interrupts as he stands up to pace the floor. “I can’t face him again. I... We had a good thing going me and him. It was safe and comfortable but I _ruined_ it by wanting more. Now, our relationship is never going to be the same...”

“You haven’t ruined anything. You said he didn’t stop you so I don’t think he was against what was happening. And, of course, things are going to be different but that’s not a bad thing... You two are good for each other, why is that so hard for you to realize that?”

“Because it’s terrifying that someone as amazingly _good_ as him can put up with someone like me!” ..._That he can look at me with such unconditional adoration that I can hardly breathe._

Anathema looks at him with sympathy as he finally let his walls down in front of her. She smooths out her turquoise sweater dress as she gets up from her seat to stand in front of him. His assistant gently places her petite hands on his shoulders and looks him dead in the eye before saying, “Crowley... you’re an idiot. Of course, it’s terrifying... that’s what love is supposed to be like.” She feels him tremble at the word but she carefully continues. “It’s supposed to be scary and _messy_ to care about someone so damn much... but it’s worth it,” she promises. “It’s worth it when they look at you like you’re the most important thing in the world and when they bring out the best parts of you that you didn’t know even know you had.”

Anathema is speaking from experience. She was only supposed to stay in London for a year-long sabbatical before she went back to Malibu and joined the family business. Then she met Newt and he made her realize she was her own person. He _believed_ in her... Now all she hopes she can impart that wisdom onto Crowley.

She squeezes his biceps gently. “I’m not saying you have to make any decision right now... I’m just saying you shouldn’t give up on a good thing.”

Crowley gulps down the lump in his throat and nods. “I... I’ll try.”

Anathema accepts this with a nod knowing it’s the best she’s going to get out of him for today.

To her surprise, Crowley pulls her in for a hug. “Thank you, ‘Thema...”

She reciprocates the motion as she reassuringly pats his back. “You’re welcome... Although, I hope I’m getting paid overtime for this,” she jokes with a light giggle.

Crowley chuckles at this, feeling very grateful he hit the right bike.

***

“Here you go, dearie,” Madame Tracy offers as she hands Aziraphale a floral teacup and saucer. “I thought to put some Irish cream instead of milk. Seems you could use a little kick right about now.”

“Thank you, Tracy,” he murmurs appreciatively as he slumps back in her cushiony armchair.

She takes a sip of her own spiked drink before asking, “So... any word from Mr. Crowley?”

Aziraphale shakes his head solemnly. “Miss Anathema, was able to finally reach him but... she just said he needed some more time.”

“Well, that’s some good news at least.”

“Perhaps... I just fear she’s trying to spare my feelings from the fact that he no longer wishes to see me.” The idea makes him take a generous drink from his teacup.

“Aziraphale, there’s no need to jump to conclusions. A very big thing happened between the two of you. The poor fellow is probably still reeling is all.”

“Maybe... Maybe I shouldn’t have allowed it to happen,” he bemoans miserably. “He was in a vulnerable position and I should’ve been the one with enough sense of mind to slow things down but...” His mind flashes back to how wonderfully their bodies and mouths molded together and he can’t help sigh, “I got carried away.”

“So what if you did, darling? You have nothing to feel ashamed about because it felt right, didn’t it?”

“Yes... It was everything I dreamed it would be and then some. At least _I thought_ it was.”

“Then you need to lay all your cards down on the table and tell Mr. Crowley exactly what's in that bleeding heart of yours. Let him know that you mean business,” she advises excitedly.

“But... what if he doesn’t want the same thing and I lose him?” _What if I lose the love of my life...?_

She pouts a little at his dejection and assures, “Then he’d be an absolute fool because you are a catch.”

He smiles gratefully at her attempt to cheer him up. “Careful now, Tracy. Wouldn’t want Sergeant Shadwell to think you’re replacing him with The Southern Pansy,” he quips which causes her to giggle.

“I am serious though... When the moment is right, you need to be honest with him. Trust me, it is much worse worrying about what could be than the actual result. Do you think Mr. S and I would be married now if I stayed content with leaving his plate out every day or the occasional ‘Good evening, Jezebel’ in the hallway?” She flips her newly bleached hair. “Unfortunately, you can’t rely solely on good looks. Sometimes you have to be forward to get what you want.”

“Well, you know me... going fast isn’t exactly my forte,” he reminds dismally.

The medium simply shrugs at the notion. “It’s never too late for an old dog to learn new tricks,” she says with an encouraging smile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Halloween y'all 🎃 !! Was going to post this chapter on the weekend but wanted to give everyone a little Halloween present (cause nothing is spookier than angst and pining 😱!)


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys, sorry for the wait on this chapter :P I had been heckin’ busy with life but once I got that sorted I got a fit a writer’s block. We are nearing the end of this story and I wanted to make sure I was satisfied with the final play to do this story justice. Thank you for the patience and I love y’all! 
> 
> TW: Brief use of homophobic language (period-typical)

Aziraphale stands outside of the theater house, practically shaking in his brogues as he deliberates if he’s truly doing the right thing. After they met, Crowley had taken it upon himself to reserve a front-row seat for him every opening night; on this occasion, it was for his play, _Shattered Masquerade_. However, after The Incident, the bibliophile considered not attending, fearful that his presence would no longer be welcomed. Even now he’s terrified that he’ll make things worse but, despite the risk, he knows it is one worth taking... He’s ready to play his hand no matter what it might ensue.

He takes a deep breath before making his way through the wooden revolving door.

\- 

Backstage, everyone bustles around getting ready for showtime while Crowley fastidiously tugs at his red cravat, the fabric feeling particularly restrictive against his throat.

Anathema notices his discomfort and asks, “Hey, you okay?”

“Awesome,” he answers in a forced American accent. “Except, this thing feels like a damn noose around my neck.”

“Here lemme fix it,” she offers. “I’ve gotten pretty good practice with Newt.”

He relents with a huff and lets her fiddle with the bothersome garment.

As she adjusts the satin fabric, she presses, “Is the collar the only thing bugging you tonight?”

Her boss stays silent for a moment before sighing, “‘M just wondering if he’s out there right now...” He glances over to the stage concealed by dense, golden curtains.

“I guess you’ll see soon enough but knowing Aziraphale, he’s probably patiently waiting as always,” she comforts. Honestly, Anathema can’t say for certain even though she had half a mind to call the bookshop keeper and confirm that he was coming. Eventually, she decided against it, figuring it was time to step back and let these old fools make their own decisions.

“That’s what I’m worried about... I’ve avoided him for two weeks... I don’t deserve to have any more of his time. I wouldn’t even hold it against him if he’s not here.”

Anathema finishes up with his costume. “My advice, for now, would be save the melodrama for the stage, boss. You can worry about the real world later.”

Crowley takes a deep breath. “Yeah, I guess you’re right.”

Anathema gasps dramatically. “Did you just admit I’m right? Blessed be the day.”

“Oh, shut it,” he jabs with no real malice.

“Places everyone,” the stage director instructs with a clap of her hands.

“Break a leg,” Anathema wishes, giving Crowley a thumbs up as he makes his way toward the stage.

Crowley takes a seat in the decorative sienna chair placed right in the middle of the stage. A few feet away, his fellow actor, a grey-haired man with thick mutton chops, is sat at a matching office desk. The thespian inhales deeply through his nose as he assimilates to the set, getting into the mentality of his role. Ironically, that is exactly what his part entails considering his character, a Scottish corporate spy, is preparing to take on the newly fabricated identity of Callum Sinclair for his employer and mentor, Alastair Jameson.

The lights go out before the curtains begin to draw and Crowley’s eyes can only manage to see the dark silhouettes of the audience members. The spotlight shines on the actor and as his vision adjusts… he is met with the sight of curly blonde hair and timid blue eyes.

_Aziraphale…_ Crowley is overcome by a mixture of elation, relief, and dread as a bittersweet smile crosses his guardian angel’s soft, rosy lips.

As his admirer gazes back at him, he studies the fine details of his Victorian-era garb. He wears a black tapestry waistcoat over an impeccably white dress shirt beautifully contrasted by his crimson necktie and a dark-grey coat that matches his trimmed slacks. More importantly, Aziraphale manages to capture the slight upward twitch of Crowley’s lips; a final snapshot of him before he delves into his new persona.

The thespian straightens his posture as he sits poised with one leg crossed over the other, his hands neatly folded onto his lap. He jauntily delivers, “I learned long ago that you must adopt different roles to navigate the vices of this world. I have played the pitiful starving child that begged for scraps with one hand while pickpocketing with the other. I have been the dashing cavalier, charming the hearts of the loveliest debutants for the sole purpose of gaining access to their expensive heirlooms.” He shrugs flippantly as if those were minor stints before his big career break. “Now, I have made a living performing as the eager apprentice, traveling throughout all of Britain’s finest factories to gather and trade their most coveted secrets.”

He stands on his feet, prowling around the chair like it’s one of his patsies. “Yes, I may be a con artist but aren’t we all in a way? We go about our lives crafting versions of ourselves that best serve our personal agendas... We all wear masks. At least I’m not naive enough to deny that fact.” He grips the intricately carved head of the chair as he wears an impish smile. “I guess that makes me one of the most authentic conmen you’ll ever know.”

He swivels his chair and pushes it along the stage until it’s across Mr. Jameson’s desk, the lights now completely flooding the stage. Once he’s seated again, the two men begin discussing the details of the crook’s new assignment: infiltrating a prolific textile company co-owned by the patriarch, Robert Dalaigh, and his son, Malcolm, in order to investigate their business plans abroad for their competitors.

Alastair presents him with a forged invitation to the family’s annual gala to make contact with either of them. Before he leaves, his employer reminds, “Oh, and it is a costume party so dress accordingly.”

Callum laughs, “Don’t I always?”

In the next scene, a troupe of extravagantly dressed women and gentlemen fill the stage as classical music plays in the background. Callum returns wearing a red cape over his outfit and a black mask with devil horns protruding over the brows. He strolls through the crowd, making casual chit-chat in the hope someone might be able to direct him to one of the Dalaighs. However, he soon gets distracted by one guest in particular; a chestnut-haired woman wearing an ivory ball gown accented with lavender ruffles that match the lace butterfly adorning the corner of her porcelain mask. “Well, I guess I have time to kill,” the crook defends to himself. As he coolly sidles next to her, Callum lays on the suaveness obnoxiously thick. “Pardon me, Miss. I must have read the invitation incorrectly because it said nothing about a beauty contest.”

She’s initially taken aback by his boldness but flashes him an overtly saccharine smile. “Awe, that’s sweet. How long did it take you to come up with that sorry excuse of a line?”

He shrugs unfazed by her tone and hums, “About a meter give or take.”

Aziraphale nostalgically smiles at Crowley’s undeniably flirtatious wit coming through… He does miss it.

The woman squints at him but lets out an amused chuckle. “Well, aren’t you clever?”

“Clever enough to ask a beautiful dame for a dance,” Callum suggests haughtily as he offers his hand to her.

She eyes him distrustfully but seemingly decides to humor him and wearily takes his hand with a curt nod.

He brings her gloved hand to his lips and gives it a chaste kiss. “Callum Sinclair, at your service.”

“Rowena,” she introduces respectfully.

“Nice to meet you, Rowena,” he says mirthfully as he walks her to the center of the stage and pulls her closer so they can gently waltz to the melody. “So, how have you been enjoying the party?”

“Oh, it has been just grand,” she responds facetiously.

Callum clicks his tongue at her before leading her into a spin. “No need to feign civility for my sake. I’d like to know what you really think,” he assures.

She tilts his head at him a little surprised at his curiosity but relents. “Honestly… it’s a little underwhelming,” Rowena admits with a huff. “I have to come to these parties every year and I thought it might be different this year but unfortunately it’s just a glorified business meeting as always…” She gives him that same suspicious look as before. “Just people trying to gain something from each other.”

The crook shrugs deciding there’s no point in hiding anything just yet. “You are quite right. I’m new around here and figured that a jamboree like this would be a good way to make myself known. So, I suppose I am guilty of being a first-class leech myself.”

The fine maiden smiles faintly at this, seemingly finding his sincerity refreshing. “At least you’re a self-aware one. I’ll give you that, Mr. Sinclair.”

Another spin and a dip.

“Well, honesty is my policy,” he fibs deviously. “And, honestly, I agree that this ball is quite a drag,” he comments in an exaggerated whisper.

“Oh, and how would you improve it, if it were up to you?”

He ponders this for a moment. “Burlesque dancers,” he answers bluntly.

Rowena’s eyes widen and a laugh bubbles out of her. “What?”

“Sure, why not? If people weren’t such prudes they’d realize they are quite talented women,” he defends with a chuckle.

“Okay, fair enough.”

“What about you? What would you want?”

She blinks at him as if no one had asked her that before. Rowena pensively hums, “Hmm… Chocolate cake instead of crudité.”

“Good choice.”

“Something stronger than champagne,” she adds.

“Whiskey or vodka?”

“Bourbon.”

Lift and spin.

“Ah, a woman of good taste,” he comments as he places her down. “Anything else?”

“Oh, definitely some livelier music. Really, it sounds like a wake in here,” she huffs.

Callum smiles mischievously at that. “Well, that one can be arranged. One moment please,” he excuses himself with a bow.

He makes his way to the musicians and the audience can see him whispering to the maestro as he hands him a bill. They nod their heads before they pick up their instruments again. Suddenly, the air is filled with more uplifting, [ folk music ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0S6SGqHR2iw) as Callum saunters back clapping his hands to the rhythm which catches the attention of the other guests.

Rowena shakes her head at his brazenness but a joyous grin spreads through her obscured face as he offers his hand to her again. She takes it and is abruptly hauled into a flurry of bounces and spins. Soon the rest of the partygoers follow their lead in joining the jubilation.

As the music ends, Callum and Rowena have been reduced to a fit of giggles and pants.

“Now _that_ was an improvement,” she wheezes delightedly.

“I did promise I was at your service,” he reminds with a wink causing her to giggle bashfully, twirling one of her cascade of curls in her finger.

All of a sudden, a gentleman wearing a golden mask appears on the stage behind them; a fake smile plastered on as he tucks his hands behind his back. “Rowena, darling, I thought you weren’t going to make it.”

Rowena’s beaming smile falters as she notices the man. She clears her throat and primly answers, “I wasn’t planning on coming but I had a change of heart.”

“Right…” His tone not matching his chipper appearance, something Callum notes questionably. “Well, I was looking for your brother, thinking he would be around as well. There were some investors here and I hoped he could talk to them.”

Her lips twitch in annoyance before donning her sweet tone again to reply, “Well, you know Malcolm isn’t a fan of these events either. I’m sure you can take it up with him tomorrow, Dad.” Before her father can say anything else, she turns to Callum. “Thank you for the dance, Mr. Sinclair, but I should get going…” Rowena pecks the spy’s cheek, much to his surprise, before taking her leave offstage.

The man turns to Callum trying to keep his professional demeanor intact. “I apologize. My daughter can be quite outspoken at times.”

“There’s no need. She was nothing but hospitable.”

Rowena’s father nods in relief. “Oh, how rude of me to not properly introduce myself.” He holds his hand out. “Robert Dalaigh.”

Callum grin widens to that of a Cheshire cat’s as he realizes he’s reached his intended target. “Ah, the man of the hour. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Dalaigh. I’m Callum Sinclair.” He shakes his hand and the scene fades out.

The next scene is set in the Dalaighs’ family den, a portrait of Robert and his two young children hanging above the faux fireplace. Callum and Robert are now out of costume and are chatting as if they were old friends. The older man offers to bring a bottle of wine from his personal reserve as he goes to his desk and pulls out the keyring for his wine cellar. “I’ll be back soon. Do make yourself comfortable, Callum.”

The crook takes a seat on one of the luxurious armchairs until Robert completely exits. Once he’s sure he’s gone, Callum goes to work by rummaging through the drawers of the office desk. While he’s distracted with the bottom drawers he doesn’t hear a young man come into the room.

“Who’s back there?” he asks sternly.

Callum jolts up, bonking his head on the edge of the desk with an _oof_.

The con artist rubs the back of his head as he gets up, inconspicuously closing the drawer with his foot. “Sorry, didn’t mean to startle you. My cufflink just inconveniently rolled underneath,” he lies, holding up the metal piece to bolster his claim.

Staring back at him was a slim, frowning young man with short, russet hair combed back, a navy overcoat, and black trousers. His defensive posture slacks a bit. “Oh…” He clears his throat a bit. “My father didn’t tell me anyone would be here.”

“Well, it wasn’t exactly a planned visit. We just got back from a tour of the factory and he invited me over,” Callum retells. “You must be, Malcolm.” He goes around the desk to approach him and shakes his hand to introduce himself. “It’s nice to finally meet you. Your father speaks very highly of you.”

He tuts at him. “I’m sure he does…”

The crook senses Malcolm’s insecurity and continues to insist, “He does. He says you do an excellent job handling your employees and clients.”

A faint smile crosses his lips. “That’s nice to hear, even if it’s from a stranger instead of him…” He goes to sit down in one of the armchairs. “Although, I suppose you’re not that much of a stranger, Mr. Sinclair. My sister told me all about you after the party.”

That seems to perk Callum up as he sits down as well. “Oh, well, I hope she only had good things to say about me.”

He rolls his eyes a bit. “Don’t be too cocky about it but yes. She thought you were… charming.”

Callum grins brightly at this news. “To be honest, I was hoping I’d run into her again today. Is she around?”

Malcolm hesitates a bit before answering, “Rowena is out of town. You could say, her and Dad don’t get along so she makes herself as absent as possible.”

“Yes, I got that impression the last time I saw her… If you do see her, can you give her my regards?”

He nods at his request. “Maybe, if you want that is… you could write to her and I could try to get it to her.”

Callum smiles in appreciation. “Yes that’s a great idea.”

As the play progresses, Callum becomes closer to the Dalaighs to the point that he even joins them for dinner and business meetings. At the same time, the audience hears the narration of letters that Rowena writes to Callum, slowly expressing her affection towards him and promising they’d get to see each other soon. It becomes apparent that the spy is becoming more invested in his role, beyond the call of duty. Something Alastair voices his concern about.

The spotlight shines on Callum standing alone as he holds the latest letter from his boss, who is sitting at his desk on the opposite end of the stage with a separate light illuminating him.

“Dear ‘Callum’, I know you are a man that prides himself over your art of deception but time is of the essence. Our mutual clients are growing impatient and, frankly, so am I. We need any intel you have as soon as possible or this contract will fall through. Sincerely, A.J.” The light dims only leaving Callum.

Callum sighs heavily, as he rubs his temple, visibly conflicted about the whole ordeal. He has indeed been procrastinating on his mission, knowing any information he found would mean betraying the Dalaighs… betraying the only family he has come to care about.

The scene shifts as all the lights turn on; Malcolm now at the desk, shuffling through papers. “Callum, I have good news,” he announces excitedly as Callum ambles toward him. “I just got word from our business partners in New York and they’re interested in helping us build a new factory there.”

“That is great,” he says with a proud smile. “I know you’ve been working hard to get that deal... You deserve it”

Malcolm beams happily as he twirls a lock of his hair. “Thanks.” It is a subtle tick that has been alluded to in other scenes but it seems to ring even more familiar as a flash of doubt crosses Callum’s face. However, Malcolm is oblivious to this as he continues, “It’s going to be a lot of work. This is just the initial paperwork and I feel like I’m drowning in it already. Do you think you can help me transcribe some copies?”

Callum snaps out of his daze and nods as he takes a seat across from him. As the young man resumes his task, the crook seems to be scrutinizing every one of his movements. Eventually, Callum lifts a piece of paper to cover half of Malcolm’s face as he continues to fiddle with his hair. His expression contorts with utter shock as he suddenly has an epiphany. “Oh, shit,” he exclaims.

“What?” Malcolm asks in confusion.

The crook quickly slams the paper down and sputters, “N-nothing, eh, it’s just… That’s a lot of zeros.”

“Oh, right,” he chuckles as he goes back to writing. “That’s the financial projection if things go well.”

Callum seems utterly dumbfounded as he continues to gawk at a preoccupied Malcolm. Finally, he tires of wondering and decides to affirm his theory as he ambles behind the desk to be at the other man’s side. He leans down and breathily whispers into Malcolm’s ear, “Mind giving me a quick run-down before I get to work?

The young man seems to shudder at the sensation. “Um, of course,” he agrees albeit a bit strained. He rambles on, sifting through a few documents. Callum takes it up a notch and slings his arm over his shoulder pretending to listen attentively to his discourse. Malcolm tries his best to continue but stutters when he starts to caress his hand up and down his bicep. He practically shoots up from his chair, completely flustered. “You know, I think I can do this myself. Thank you for keeping me company but I think it is best that you leave—“

Callum corrals him against the desk keeping him where he wants. “Is that you what you want… Do you really want me to leave, Rowena?”

A few audience members make a little “Ooh” noise at the revelation.

“Callum, please,” she begs, her voice quivering and now at her normal pitch.

“If you want me to leave, I promise I will but…” He lovingly lifts her chin. “I would prefer to stay here with you.”

She lets out a broken sigh but leans into his touch. “Stay…”

He captures her lips in his but Crowley holds back a bit considering the person he really wants to be kissing is sitting in the audience watching.

The pair pulls apart and they move to sit down on the chaise where Rowena explains the truth to Callum. The real Malcolm has been dead for about ten years and Rowena has been impersonating him ever since. Robert managed to cover it up and convinced her to take her brother’s place out of fear that people would lose trust in them if they knew a woman would be taking over the business.

Callum points out the obvious injustice of it all. “Rowena, you should be living your own life not trying to keep a ghost alive…”

She shakes her head in disagreement. “I wish it were that simple but it’s not just my family I’m thinking about. It’s all of our workers and their families too. Not only that, I’m worried about this whole town that was practically built because of this factory. If my secret gets out, I’d be putting everything at risk… I know it’s unfair but it’s my burden to bear.”

He takes her hands his. “It doesn’t have to be… I’ll share the burden with you.”

“Callum…”

“I understand why you have to do this and I’ll help keep your secret… I just want you to know that when it’s just you and me… you _can _be selfish. You don’t have to pretend with me anymore.”

Rowena snivels and buries her face in his chest. “Thank you,” she hiccups as Callum cradles her.

The pair continue their romance, trying to keep it hidden from Rowena’s father and the rest of the world. Unfortunately, in the haze of their blissful romance, they fail to realize someone is preying on them, waiting for the opportune moment to strike.

Callum is seen taking his coat from a rack in preparation to go meet with Rowena. As he slips it on, there is a knocking sound. “It’s open,” he calls out, a little perplexed.

Alastair appears on stage with a serious expression. “Hello, ‘Mr. Sinclair’.”

The crook pales for a moment but quickly composes himself. “Ah, Jameson. It’s a surprise seeing you here.” His employer makes himself comfortable on the settee without asking permission which makes Callum skittish. “Now, I know I have been taking longer than usual but I am really close to a breakthrough—“

“Save it,” he interrupts sternly. “You can lie to everyone else but not _me_; the man who taught you everything you know.”

Callum gulps at his tone.

“I knew something was wrong so I decided to see for myself what you had gotten yourself into and sure enough I saw some interesting things.” He reclines on the sofa as he if he were the Godfather. “You and the Dalaigh boy seem to have grown _very _close…” Alastair insinuates. “I assume he’s the reason you have been skirting on your duties.”

The crook shifts nervously, realizing he’s been observing him and “Malcolm”. “You’ve got it all wrong, Jameson. It’s all part of my plan—“

“What did I just say about lying to me,” he scolds. “If that’s where your inclinations lie, fine, to each their own I suppose but I will not allow your buggery to interfere with our clients’ interest!”

Callum snaps, “_Fuck_ you and your clients! I’m not going to help you destroy this family’s livelihood. They’ve been through enough!”

Alastair clenches his jaw and stands up. “I think you’ve forgotten who’s really in charge here. I can not only ruin your life but I can ruin your catamite’s life as well and still make a pretty profit out of it. I can see the headline now.” He makes a hand motion through the air. “Malcolm Dalaigh Imprisoned for Abhorrent Affair.” He ignores Callum’s fuming anger and continues, “Still, I’m a reasonable man. I am still appreciative of everything you’ve done for me over the years so I’m willing to give you another opportunity. You bring me all documents related to the Dalaighs foreign business affairs and I give you my word that I will not have Malcolm pursued. I think that’s a fair deal...”

The crook hangs his head in defeat and grits, “Deal…”

“Smart man,” he chirps sardonically, gently patting his cheek before taking his leave.

The set is cleared and Callum is left standing alone when Rowena hugs him from behind. “Surprise,” she giggles.

He turns around to see her dolled up for the first time since the ball as she’s dressed in a canary gown and has on her styled wig. “You… look beautiful,” he sighs through a somber smile.

She notices this and cups his face gently. “What’s wrong? You seem upset.”

Callum lets out a heavy sigh and swallows, “Rowena, I… I need to tell you something. I can’t keep lying to you anymore…” He starts to tell her the painful truth and Rowena’s face grimaces with every cruel detail he reveals.

“How could you,” she growls. She starts swatting and pushing his chest. “I trusted you, you son of a bitch!”

“I know! I’m _so_ sorry but we can’t let him get away this. If we make Malcolm disappear then he has nothing to bargain with!”

She scoffs, “Do you honestly believe that wouldn’t have the same repercussions? That man can still smear my brother’s reputation and have him treated like a fugitive that abandoned his company!”

“Then we’ll think of something else!”

“_We_? Why should I believe anything else that comes out of your mouth?”

Pause.

“Because I never lied about loving you…”

She swiftly strikes him across the face, tears streaming down her face. Aziraphale frowns a bit at this, even though he knows her character is justified.

Callum rubs his face but remains steadfast. “I know I don’t deserve your forgiveness but please let me help fix what I’ve done.”

Rowena quakes in anger but tries to compose herself. She croaks, “Fine… But once this is over… I want you out of my life.”

He dejectedly accepts this condition with a nod.

In the next scene, a frowning Callum hands Alastair a red leather folder. “Here. This is everything.”

“We’ll see about that,” he remarks distrustfully. He opens it up and scans through the papers to ensure they appear authentic. “Excellent, excellent. I’m glad you didn’t completely fail me.” He closes up the portfolio with a satisfied smirk. “Now, we should get out of town before they realize these are missing.”

“Already have my bags packed,” he affirms bitterly.

With another scene change, the pair are back at Alastair’s office with a couple of gentlemen that take the folder away, thanking them for their services with a handshake. They leave the stage and the sound of a horse carriage can be heard in the distance. “As usual, another set of satisfied customers,” Alastair applauds cockily as he sits back down.

“Yes, they looked very happy to steal someone else’s intellectual property,” he criticizes scornfully.

The older man huffs, “You know, righteousness doesn’t suit you.”

Callum dryly laughs, “You know you’re right. Once a conman always a conman... Unfortunately, you pissed off the wrong one,” he jeers, standing with conviction. “Which is why your clients are not going to be so satisfied when they realize the documents they actually got were proposals the Dalaighs never went through with.” Alastair’s smug expression drops like a lead anvil. “I had a little help of course. Malcolm did me the favor of signing them off as if they were real but, in reality, those documents are as useful as the paper they wipe their arses with.”

His mentor slams his fist on the desk and seethes, “You insolent little shit! I’ll burn you for this! You and your fucking tart!”

Callum tsks at him unbothered by his threat. “That’s going to be a little difficult behind bars… because you seemed to have forgotten that I know all of your dirty secrets too,” he reminds wickedly. “The proper authorities are investigating a tip they got about potential accounting fraud, tax evasion, and a whole litany of dreadful schemes.” He checks his pocket watch. “Actually, it won’t be long until they show up for a visit so I best be on my way. It was a pleasure doing business with you, Mr. Jameson.” He gives him a polite bow as he turns to walk away.

“You realize if I go down, so will you,” he shouts practically foaming at the mouth.

Callum stops for a moment, slightly turning his head over his shoulder. “You can’t catch someone who doesn’t exist… You taught me that remember?” With that, he leaves as the lights begin to fade again.

In the final scene, Callum is standing in front of a tailor dummy as he fidgets with the suit he is currently working on. His clothes are simpler now; just his white dress shirt and his slacks held up by red suspenders.

The jingle of a doorbell can be heard in the background and for a moment Crowley is reminded of Aziraphale’s bookshop...

“Sorry, appointments only,” he informs.

“Well, I’m sorry to say that suits aren’t quite my style anymore,” Rowena retorts as she walks up behind him. She too appears different from the last time they saw each other. Her natural hair is styled in a short, feminine bob and she wears a grey pinstriped blouse tucked underneath a flowing, burgundy skirt that pairs with her rouged lips.

Callum’s eyes widen at the sound of her voice and he turns around to face her. “Rowena... What are you— How did you manage to find me?”

“It wasn’t easy... I remembered you saying that once you wanted to open up a tailor shop because your mother taught you how to sew... I figured it was a long shot but... I’m glad that it wasn’t a lie.”

Callum looks down at his feet in shame even though there’s no real reproach in her voice. “But... why? After everything I did...”

Crowley glances over to the audience and catches Aziraphale’s eyes; his accent slipping as he murmurs, “Why are you here, when I ruined everything?”

Aziraphale feels tears prickle his eyes and it takes every fiber of his being not to scream, “_Because I love you, dammit! Because you are worth loving!_”

Rowena finally speaks up. “I’m here because despite everything... I’m still grateful that I met you. After you left, I was angry at you but then I realized it was awfully hypocritical of me... I had been living a lie too. I tricked so many people so I was in no position to judge you... But that’s over now.”

“What do you mean?”

“Malcolm is gone... We finally put him to rest or, at least, as best we could, anyway. ‘Presumed dead after tragic transatlantic voyage’,” she explains sullenly.

He tentatively asks, “And the company?”

“Under new management,” she reveals with a small, proud smile. “Sure there are people that aren’t too happy about that but it wasn’t to an apocalyptic level as we thought.”

“I’m glad... you deserve to live your life, Rowena.”

“The ironic thing is I would have never had the courage if it weren’t for you so... thank you.”

He inhales deeply. “To be honest, it should be me thanking you... I played so many characters in my life... I wore so many masks that I forgot there was even a person behind them.”

Crowley turns to face the audience and improvises, “Maybe that person is not the best and maybe there are parts that are still broken... but it’s me.” He smiles faintly at Aziraphale with glazed eyes and the bibliophile chokes back the sob building inside of him. “You set me free... and I’ll always be grateful for that.”

Rowena places a gentle hand on his shoulder, snapping him back into character as he faces her again. “I know... we can’t get back what we had but maybe we could start something new,” he requests meekly.

She gives him a reassuring smile. “I’d like that...” Rowena holds out her hand. “It’s nice to meet you, Sir. I’m Rowena Dalaigh.”

The lights starts to fade inward until they’re the only thing that are illuminated. The former con artist shakes her hand with an affectionate squeeze. “It’s nice to meet you, Miss Dalaigh. Gavin Reid, at your service...”

The lights flicker off for a final time and the theater is filled with a round of applause. Once the lights return, the entire cast is back on stage for their bows. Despite all the cheering, Crowley’s focus is solely on his angel, happily clapping with tears brimming his eyes… The curtains finally shut, separating the two once again.

Crowley vaguely acknowledges the director praising his ad-lib but is distracted as he eyes the thick fabric. As the cast starts heading backstage, Anathema notices Crowley is lingering. Suddenly her boss pivots on his feet and heads towards the curtains. Crowley dramatically flicks the curtains open and shouts, “Aziraphale— Oh…” He sees Aziraphale still in his seat as poised and proper as ever while a few stragglers throw the thespian a confused look. “I, er, thought you’d be heading out the door,” he bumbles.

Aziraphale fondly smiles at him. “I wasn’t planning to unless security decided to drag me out,” he assures humorously.

The thespian chuckles with relief before nervously biting his lip. “I— We should talk…”

The bibliophile gives him a nod and stands up from his seat. “Yes, I suppose we should…”

“Just, uh, give me a few minutes, yeah? I would prefer to do it as myself...” he says, motioning to his outfit.

Aziraphale compassionately affirms, “Of course.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We’re turning up the heat next chapter ;) 
> 
> P.S. I just finished watching Broadchurch so it was only fair that I referenced David Tennant’s Scottish accent in this chapter :D


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale floors it (so, heed the tags)

Crowley hears a polite rap on his dressing room door as he stares at himself in the vanity mirror. He inhales deeply about to grab his glasses from the drawer but stops short. He tentatively retracts his hand, deciding that he doesn’t want to hide anymore... Okay, maybe he still does but figures the gesture is more important. As he goes to answer, the distance to the door feels remarkably longer than he remembered. Crowley turns the knob and cracks the door open to see Aziraphale standing their expectantly.

“Hello,” he greets with a meek smile.

“Hi... Uh, come in,” Crowley allows, opening the door completely.

After Aziraphale scuttles in, he feels the atmosphere heavy with the same uncertainty as when they first met... Both unsure of what’s to come next as they stand in front of each other. The bibliophile decides to start off with an easy topic knowing Crowley needs to feel safe. He amicably compliments, “The play was wonderful and... you did a magnificent job, as usual.”

Crowley rubs the back of his neck bashfully, his eyes focused somewhere on the floor. “Thank you... ‘M glad you made it, Aziraphale. Really, it meant a lot...”

“Of course. I wouldn’t miss it for the world.” He shrugs with a smile. “I’m still your biggest fan.”

The thespian looks up and somberly chuckles, “Without a doubt… I just figured you might not want to considering, y’know... I stole your shirt the other day.”

Aziraphale recognizes his lighthearted tone and titters, “Ah, yes, I was very worried about it. That shirt was dry clean only.”

Crowley lets out a breathy laugh, the tension between them faintly subsiding like morning fog. “God, I’ve missed you, Aziraphale...”

The bibliophile blushes at this and admits, “I’ve missed you too but... I knew you needed time.”

Crowley sighs at his sympathetic nature. “Still... I really messed up and I’m sorry. I’m sorry for the way I acted. I’m just sorry for it all...” He notices Aziraphale’s slight look of dejection as he says this.

The blonde tentatively murmurs, “So, are you...” He hugs his bicep self-consciously. “Are you sorry you kissed me, then?”

Crowley’s heart sinks at his saddened voice. “No, that’s not— Well, yes, I am sorry b-but not because I thought it was bad or anything like that!” He starts pacing the floor, trying to rid some of his nervous energy. “I’m sorry that I basically jumped you and then left when I should have stayed and—“ Crowley growls in frustration. “Fuck, I really wish I had a script right now.” He leans back on the vanity, arms crossed tensely over his chest. Aziraphale, ever-so-patient, waits for him to collect his thoughts. Finally, he huffs, “Listen... I regret how I handled things but...I don’t regret kissing you, Aziraphale.”

Aziraphale blinks in disbelief. “…Really?”

He nods his head reassuringly, rubbing his forehead anxiously. Part of him is itching to put on his shades but he trudges on. “I know running away was shitty of me but that kiss was the best and most terrifying thing I’ve ever done in my life. It was so perfect and, yet, I felt utterly _greedy_ because how is it fair of me to want more when I’m already lucky enough to have someone like you in my life... How can I even deserve it?”

Aziraphale finally dares to take a step forward, keeping a respectful space between them. “Crowley... I ask myself that same question too. I was just another face in the crowd... a simple admirer and somehow we’re here together now. I know it’s difficult to fathom but if wanting more with our relationship is greedy then... I guess so am I.”

Crowley’s eyes widen and a sound akin to a sob passes his lips. “Aziraphale...” he says in a pleading tone. Truthfully, he doesn’t know if he’s pleading for him to stop or for him to continue reassuring him.

Thankfully, Aziraphale decides for him as he steps a little closer. He reaches into his coat pocket, pulling out an envelope; the weight of its content as heavy as a block of steel in his hand. He takes a deep breath through his nose. “I know there’s no flowers or gift this time but... I thought it best if I delivered this one personally,” he explains, holding out the letter.

He feels his throat closing in but he manages to choke out, “Read it to me? ...Please, I want to hear it coming from you,” he requests feebly.

“Alright...” He carefully unfolds the cream-colored envelope, retrieving the letter inside. He nervously clears his throat and recites, “My dearest Crowley... from the moment I saw you, I knew I was hopelessly besotted and every moment since then has only unfairly added to the overwhelming endearment I have for you. Every word you’ve uttered both onstage and off... every smile you’ve given me and every second we’ve spent together have all served as a steady flow to an already brimming cup. The kiss we shared was merely another confirmation to what I already knew...” He looks up from the letter, locking eyes with him. “I love you, Anthony J. Crowley...”

Crowley’s exhales abruptly as if he’s gotten punched in the gut.

Aziraphale gulps silently but carefully proceeds, “The love I have for you is so great, so _ineffable_… that I don’t believe even these words could suffice to explain it. Still, I hope they serve to convince you that it’s the truth. I will always love you no matter what... Sincerely, Aziraphale,” he concludes, folding the paper away.

Crowley covers his mouth, trying to suppress a snivel from escaping but it’s no use. All the emotions he’s kept walled off come flooding out as tears flow freely down his cheeks… He is loved... He hasn’t allowed himself to believe it even if the signs were always there. Now that it’s all in the open, it washes over him, filling and overflowing every crack of his being.

The bibliophile starts to panic unsure what to do except flail his hands worriedly. “Oh, Crowley, I didn’t mean to upset you! P-please, I’m sorry! I just wanted you to understand how I felt—“

“Aziraphale...” he hiccups, wiping his eyes with his jacket sleeve. “Shut up, will ya? ...I love you too,” he confesses with a sniff.

“Oh...” His eyes widen as if he finally understands what he said. “_Oh!_ Oh, that’s— Well, that’s jolly good then,” he exclaims giddily as tears of his own start spilling out.

Crowley reaches out and gently wipes them away with his thumb. “Come on, now. I’m enough of a blubbering mess for both of us,” he quips with a tearful smile.

Aziraphale giggles through a sniffle as he clasps Crowley’s hand against his face. “I wish I could help it, my dear... I’m just so overjoyed right now,” he sighs breathlessly. “We love each other...” The words linger in the air as warm and comforting as a freshly-stoked hearth. Aziraphale brings their hands toward his chest, pressing Crowley’s palm to his rapidly beating heart.

“It seems that way...” he admits with a coy smile, soothed by the rhythmic thrum. He wraps his free arm around Aziraphale’s waist and he happily complies as Crowley draws their bodies closer together.

Aziraphale beams at him with rosy cheeks as he drapes his other hand over Crowley’s shoulder. He gazes into his eyes now unburdened from fear; the golden flecks of his irises practically glimmering with adoration. “Crowley, dear... I would very much like to kiss you if that’s alright with you?”

The thespian nods his head with a goofy grin on his face. “I promise I’ll stay put this time.”

“Good to hear,” he laughs, affectionately carding his fingers through the copper tresses above his nape. Aziraphale leans in slowly, their breaths tickling each other’s lips before they tenderly press them together; two puzzle pieces finally locking into place. Whatever tension was left quickly dissolves like candy floss as they decadently savor each other, their mouths moving in tandem.

Crowley longingly clings onto Aziraphale, part of him still thinking he might evaporate into a puff of smoke if he doesn’t. Yet, the way his guardian angel trails tiny smooches along his jawline reminds him that it’s real… He’s really with him.

Aziraphale gently nuzzles Crowley’s sideburn, paying particular attention to the tinted flesh, his lips brushing along the design. “Beautiful,” he whispers before placing a chaste kiss to his tattoo which causes Crowley to gasp. Aziraphale continues, punctuating each compliment with a peck to drive his point. “Wonderful. Perfect. Absolutely unique in every way, darling.”

A shaky sigh escapes the thespian’s lips as those loving words stir something deep inside his gut. On instinct he starts, “Aziraphale, ‘m not—“ He bites back a moan as Aziraphale starts nibbling the crook of his neck.

He hushes him soothingly as he kisses along the column of his throat. “None of that, love... You are all of that and so much more. I don’t care how much I have to say it for you to believe it but I will until you do.”

Crowley gulps back more tears as he hugs Aziraphale tighter, one hand on his lower back and the other now resting on the back of his head. “I... I know,” he murmurs. “Old habits die hard, I guess… Maybe it’ll take a while for me to fully grasp it but... I believe in you, angel.” He rests his forehead against Aziraphale’s, stroking his finger knuckles along his cheek. “I believe in us...”

The bibliophile smiles joyfully and pecks the corner of his mouth. “I do too,” he agrees before Crowley takes his lips into his again.

Much like the first time, their kiss rapidly evolves to a more earnest, desperate pace. Both of them losing themselves to a frenzy of nipping teeth, swirling tongues, and roaming hands.

Aziraphale hands glide over the front Crowley’s black dress shirt, caressing them along his pecs and Crowley inhales sharply as his fingers momentarily graze his nipples. He pulls away slightly with a worried expression, interpreting the noise as a sign of distress. “Is something wrong, dear? We could stop—“

“No,” Crowley quickly interjects, face flushing red at how desperate he sounds. “Just, uh, keep doing what you’re doing,” he instructs bashfully.

The insinuation dons on the bibliophile and the slightest smirk crosses his lips. “Well, if you insist,” he acquiesces teasingly.

Crowley rolls his eyes and huffs, “Cheeky bastard— _Ah!_” The insult falls short as the blonde rubs his palms over the sensitive peaks.

“Like that?” Aziraphale asks curiously, ensuring he’s not overstepping his boundaries.

The thespian lets out the softest yet most satisfied keens as the friction of cotton and the pressure of his hands send pleasant little shockwaves down to his groin. “Y-yeah, just like that,” he sighs, clutching his hips as he leans into the touch.

Aziraphale isn’t proud of it but he feels a bit smug as he draws out more wanton reactions from Crowley. “Such pretty sounds,” he praises huskily, lips tracing his jutted collarbones. “What more can I do to get you to make more of those noises for me, my dear, sweet boy.”

Crowley feels as if his veins are a fuel line and Aziraphale is hovering a match dangerously close to it. His hips stutter forward instinctively causing them both to groan as their erections grind together.

The bibliophile’s eyelids flicker in a daze as he gapes at Crowley’s embarrassed expression. Feeling bold, Aziraphale experimentally rolls his hips again and _“Oh! Yes, this is indeed quite lovely,”_ he thinks to himself elatedly sighing at each delicious brush.

Crowley groans lowly in his throat as he meets his thrusts, tilting his head back to give Aziraphale access to his pulse point. As he gently sucks on the sensitive skin, he keens, “_Fuck_, Aziraphale. You don’t know how badly I’ve wanted this.”

“I think I have pretty good idea,” he chuckles lowly at his obvious enthusiasm. “Rest assured, dear, you’re not the only one. You left me in quite a tizzy the other day.” He stops for a moment to catch his breath and lifts a hand to rest on the side of Crowley’s sharp jaw. “All I could think about was how much I craved your delightful lips…” He runs his thumb along Crowley’s parted bottom lip and shivers when he gently sucks on the pad. “How perfectly your body framed mine as if it were designed that way from the beginning of time,” he croons, nibbling just below his lover’s ear. “It also didn’t help that you left your shirt behind. It was as if my whole bedroom was infused with your intoxicating scent, darling.” Aziraphale’s voice drops low as he whispers, “To be completely honest, there were nights I couldn’t keep my hands off myself as I imagined you there with me finishing what we started on my couch. I must admit though…” He playfully grazes his lips along the shell of his ear before lightly tugging his earlobe between his teeth. “This is better than any of my fantasies.”

Crowley’s skin ignites like a blazing hellfire and thank, _God,_ Aziraphale is holding him because his body practically caves in on itself at the sheer shamelessness. His lust-filled mind is now swimming in images of his sweet angel strewn on that plush bed of his; one hand clutching his abandoned Henley and the other desperately stroking his needy cock. His mouth waters as he envisions Aziraphale with ruddy cheeks and matted curls moaning _his_ name as he pleasured himself.

The idea is lewd; downright filthy, even… And so fucking _hot._

Crowley’s hands wander to grope Aziraphale’s plump ass pressing him closer so he can hungrily rut against him again. “Jesus Christ… Angel, _please_— Ngh, need… I need,” he babbles mindlessly, his brain clouded with desire.

Aziraphale lovingly strokes his cheek and breathlessly asks, “What is it that you need, my dear?”

He doesn’t know exactly what he wants, just that he wants Aziraphale; his hands, his mouth, he wants it all. “Y-you,” he implores. “Anything. _Everything_. Just, please—“

Without warning, Aziraphale lifts Crowley up by the back of his thighs so he is properly seated on the vanity countertop. Crowley’s eyes grow wide as Aziraphale intensely gazes at him with dilated eyes. “Might I make a suggestion?” he purrs, skimming his hands over the warm leather of Crowley’s belt and the thespian can only give a stunned nod. “If you’d allow me, I’d like to kneel before you and worship you as you so rightfully deserve, my love.” His fingers toy with the belt loops on each side of his snakehead buckle. “I’d like to take you into my mouth as if it were the holiest communion… Slowly unraveling you until I taste your divine essence... Will you give me that honor, Crowley?” he requests sweetly as if he were a blushing bride.

Crowley nearly chokes on his own spit as he gulps but tries to regain his composure. He lightheartedly laughs, “Holy shit, how could I possibly refuse when that’s the most eloquent way to ask to suck my dick?”

Aziraphale snorts and pecks his cheek. “I was trying not to be so crude but I’m glad my hopeless romanticism isn’t lost on you…” He starts to work off his belt at a tantalizing pace while Crowley watches, teeth worrying his bottom lip. He casts the leather strip over the makeup chair and his pristine coat soon joins it.

“Planning on getting messy are we?” Crowley asks with an impish smirk although, secretly, the act makes him antsy with excitement.

“Best to err on the side of caution, dear boy,” he answers pointedly with a blushy smile.

As Aziraphale rolls up his sleeves, Crowley admires the pale expanse of his forearms sprinkled with blonde fluff. He had gotten a preview of them before when he found him tidying up the bookshop as usual. His glasses had done him the favor of preventing the bibliophile from noticing his longing gaze as he watched his muscles flexing with each stack of books he picked up. Even then, he wanted to be held down by his strong arms. Unfortunately, since he decided to give up the luxury of discretion, Aziraphale catches him gawking.

He smiles fondly at him as he cups the thespian’s cheeks. “You’re not getting distracted on me, are you?”

Crowley shrugs with a chuckle as he tenderly grabs both forearms. “Can you blame me? This is practically naked for you,” he jokes as he rubs the exposed skin, pale fuzz shifting underneath his fingertips.

He amusedly giggles and gives Crowley a sweet kiss on the lips. “I promise you can admire whatever you like later but first…” A hand lands on the front of Crowley’s grey-washed jeans and he gasps as Aziraphale squeezes the prominent bulge. “Let me get you sorted out, alright?”

“I-I’d like that very much, yes,” he begs, grinding against Aziraphale’s palm.

“Great.” He gives him one final kiss before dropping to his knees, nestling himself between Crowley’s gaunt thighs. Aziraphale unfastens a few buttons near the hem of Crowley’s shirt, just enough to reveal his auburn happy trail. Crowley’s breathing hitches as he scatters open-mouth kisses around his navel, showering his taut stomach with feathery affection. He pecks the metal button of his jeans before undoing it and pulling down the brassy zipper to expose tented, black briefs. Crowley exhales with relief at the lack of constriction and stares with heavy eyelids as Aziraphale cuddles along his inner thighs until he reaches his crotch. He tightens his grip on the edge of the counter in anticipation as the bibliophile traces the line of his clothed erection and whimpers silently as the blonde’s lips meet the tip of his cock. However, when Aziraphale starts to gently suck off the precum that has soaked the fabric already, the thespian has to bite down on his knuckle to stifle an embarrassing moan.

Aziraphale realizes he’s holding back and gazes up at Crowley with a doe-eyed expression, still mouthing at his underwear. “Crowley, dear, may I ask you a favor?”

Crowley nods frantically. “Y-yeah. Name it and it’s yours,” he swears.

“Thank you…” He comfortingly runs his hands over his outer thighs as he hums, “I want to hear you, darling... Your heavy breathing and sweet moans. Your lovely voice that makes me absolutely ache. I want to hear it all. Can you do that for me?”

The redhead lets out a staggered breath, petting Aziraphale’s fluffy hair. “Of course… I’ll give you anything you want, angel…”

“Such a good boy for me,” he coos, feeling Crowley shudder at the compliment as intended. “Just relax for me, love… I’ll take care of you.” He tugs down at the elastic of his briefs, finally exposing his eagerly-awaiting cock nestled perfectly underneath a patch of curls. As Aziraphale licks his lips at the sight of Crowley’s leaking cock, the thespian comes to the mortifying (and arousing) realization that he’s seen that expression before: Aziraphale is hungry… Absolutely, positively ravenous and ready to devour him down like a full course meal.

Yep, he is quite literally fucked.

Aziraphale takes the scorching appendage into his hand, holding it steady at the base. Crowley braces himself on the counter again and watches in awe as the blonde leans forward, tongue darting out to lick a thoughtful stripe up the generous length. The breath Crowley was holding finally passes through his trembling lips in shallow puffs as he succumbs to being relished by his angel. After thoroughly lavishing his shaft with attention, Aziraphale presses the faintest kiss to the tip causing Crowley to excitedly twitch at the contact. Although, he practically leaps into another plane of existence when he feels the warm slide of wet muscle over the flushed, sensitive head. “_Agh! _Oh, _shit_,” he groans, hands clenched so tight he might break the laminate countertop.

Aziraphale doesn’t relent, deftly lapping over the slit like his favorite vanilla ice cream gathering as much fluid Crowley’s arousal can offer. “Exquisite,” he says, sighing contently at the tanginess coating his tongue before diving back for more.

Crowley can only manage a pleasured whine in response as his head lolls back onto the mirror, eyes drifting shut; the poor actor utterly overwhelmed by all of the heightened sensations. However, they shoot open again and a guttural moan is ripped out of him as he feels a damp heat completely engulf the head of his cock. As his vision adjusts, he is met with the sight of Aziraphale’s lips obscenely wrapped around his dick, cheeks sunken in as he actually _sucks _more of him down until he reaches the hilt

“_Fuuuckk_,” Crowley says shrilly, hips jerking slightly into the swelter of his admirer’s throat. Aziraphale sputters a little but isn’t deterred as he draws back and swallows him back down, setting a steady pace. “Oh, _God_, Aziraphale, I might actually die if you keep this up,” he heaves, enjoying the titillating push and pull of his mouth. Crowley _feels_ Aziraphale laugh before he gradually pops off of him.

“Oh, but my dear you’re doing so well… You’re absolutely breath-taking like this. So _good_,” he compliments breathily, teasingly dragging Crowley’s cockhead over each lip.

“Y-you’re the good one,” he retorts. “You’re so fucking good to me, Aziraphale— _Hah!_” He is cut off by Aziraphale taking him into his mouth again.

The bibliophile hoists Crowley’s legs enough so that the back of his knees rest on his broad shoulders. At this angle, Aziraphale can bob his head up and down with more liberty while still gripping Crowley’s thighs to hold him in place. The thespian crosses his ankles together, keeping Aziraphale bracketed in that wonderful position allowing him to give, and simultaneously take, whatever he wants.

As Aziraphale continues to enthusiastically fuck him with his mouth, Crowley is reduced to a puddle of incoherent sounds and desperate little whimpers; seemingly, at the bibliophile’s complete mercy. Unbeknownst to him, however, Aziraphale isn’t faring any better in the desperation department. The hot drag of Crowley’s cock over his tongue. The subtle bump on the back of his throat from his occasional thrusts. The haggard inflections of his keening voice. It was all too much, yet not enough as Aziraphale restlessly shifts, trying to get some sort of friction on his currently neglected erection.

Crowley suddenly hears the familiar sound of a zipper being undone. His view is limited since Aziraphale’s face is still burrowed into his lap but he gets a pretty good idea when a heavy moan vibrates around his cock. Oh, how Crowley wishes he could take a snapshot of this moment. Aziraphale looks alluring as a pink hue spreads from his to cheeks down to his neck, one of his shoulders shuffling erratically as he, presumably, strokes himself. His eyes squeezed shut and eyebrows knitted in concentration as he juggles pleasuring them both. His lips stretched and glossy as he worships his cock as promised… as he worships _him_.

Crowley adoringly tugs on his platinum curls with a shaky hand and Aziraphale’s eyes flutter open, golden eyelashes batting adorably at him. The actor gazes into those dazzling orbs of his, getting lost in the endless midnight sky of his blown pupils. “So, gorgeous, angel,” he breathes in a raspy tone. “I could stay here for all eternity if you’d let me; my cock buried deep in your hot mouth.”

A chill runs down the blonde’s spine until it settles nicely into the blooming warmth radiating in his lower abdomen and all the way through his pulsating cock.

Crowley notes Aziraphale’s added fervor anytime he speaks and decides to continue. “_Gah!_ Fuck, Aziraphale, you should see yourself—“ Light scrape of teeth. “I’ve been trying so hard not to come just by _looking_ at you, _hnngh!”_ More suction. “_A-ah!_ You’re so perfect. So fucking_ perfect_, angel. My angel.” The words tumble out effortlessly, his pleasure crescendoing through every cell and atom in his body. “I love you, Aziraphale. I love you so much!” Crowley convulses from the intensity of his orgasm exploding through him like the white, hot flash of a dying star. His hand clamps down on snowy tufts as he tosses his head back and joltingly rocks his hips forward.

Crowley’s visceral response, his stunning expression and the heady flavor of his come filling his mouth are enough to push Aziraphale over his own edge as he spills into his hand with a drawn-out groan. Just as he said he would, the bibliophile gulps every drop and goes the extra mile of cleaning up the excess dribbling down Crowley’s softening dick with kitten licks. Once he’s finished, he sees Crowley reclined against the vanity mirror completely spent; chest heaving and small droplets of sweat beading on his temple… absolutely glowing.

The bibliophile presses comforting kisses to Crowley’s inner thighs. “How are you feeling, love?” he asks, still a bit winded himself.

Crowley lets out an exhausted chuckle and gives him an “okay” sign. He thoughtfully fixes Aziraphale’s ruffled hair as he answers, “I feel like I got the soul sucked out of me.”

He blushes and appreciatively giggles, “I’m happy you enjoyed yourself, darling.” He tucks himself away and zips himself up before doing the same for Crowley (because he still cares about modesty, obviously). After he carefully untangles himself from the thespian’s wiry legs and picks himself off the floor, a swell of pride and affection grows in Crowley’s chest as he notices how disheveled Aziraphale appears. His immaculate clothes now rumpled and his chin and puffy lips still shiny with spit, and probably come too.

Aziraphale is about to grab a tissue from the cardboard box that had been knocked onto its side during their exploit so he can clean up his soiled hand. However, Crowley stops him by gripping the wrist of said hand. He thirstily examines the milky substance enticingly trickling down and he looks at Aziraphale dead in the eye as he drags his tongue over his porcelain skin so he can have a taste. The bibliophile moans softly as Crowley licks and kisses along his wrist, palm, and every finger, taking his own fill. He places a kiss to the back of his hand before linking their hands together with a satisfied grin. “Sorry, angel, couldn’t resist.”

“N-not a problem,” he stammers as he clutches onto Crowley’s jacket, knees suddenly feeling very wobbly.

In a split second, Crowley is attacking his lips again and Aziraphale gladly allows it; both of them tasting each other in the process. Suddenly, their kiss is interrupted by something vibrating somewhere between their smushed bodies. They peel apart with arched eyebrows before realizing that it’s Crowley’s phone. The thespian plucks it out of his jacket pocket with an inconvenienced huff and sees a notification from Anathema.

**Hey, Boss, sorry if I’m interrupting but I can’t stall anymore. It’s closing time**

** K. ** **We’re wrapping up here anyway**

**Alright**

**Everything okay?**

He turns his head to look at Aziraphale, cutely buried against his chest, and smiles softly before replying:

**Tickety Boo ;)**

He stows his phone away and gives Aziraphale another loving kiss. He nudges their noses together before asking, “Come home with me?”

Aziraphale cheerfully beams at the prospect. “Yes, my dear.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun Fact: Originally, this fic was just going to be a one-shot about our Ineffable Husbands having a quickie in Crowley’s dressing room but it got fleshed out into something more and I have no regrets :D
> 
> Also, is it really Ineffable Husbands if Aziraphale doesn’t drop the word at least once? ;)


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Crowley slows things down (as best he can anyways)
> 
> Hope you all had wonderful holidays and cheers to the New Year! So this is it: the penultimate chapter (dun dun dun)! It took me longer than expected but this chapter was my baby and I wanted to make sure it was exactly how I imagined it so I hope it was worth the wait :3

In the kitschy elevator space of Crowley’s apartment building, the pair are sidled up together as they listen to his elderly downstairs neighbor blathering on about her day. Aziraphale, bless his soul, tries to exchange polite pleasantries with her while Crowley keeps his responses to vague nods and hums of approval. All the while, the thespian’s palm never leaves the small of Aziraphale’s back; his thumb drawing small circles to remind the bibliophile he’s not going anywhere.

The elevator doors slide open with a ding as they finally reach the older woman’s floor. She gives them a small wave and jovially says, “Good night, boys. Enjoy the rest of your evening.”

“We will,” Crowley answers with a frisky lilt, hand cleverly drifting to give Aziraphale’s bum a playful pinch.

The bibliophile jumps at the touch, cheeks turning red as he sputters, “Right, uh, good evening to you as well, ma’am. Ta-Ta!”

As she putters out with her shopping bags, Aziraphale gives Crowley a glare of indignation. However, the moment the silver doors shut, Crowley has him pinned against the wall and is mashing their lips together. The bibliophile lets out a little surprised squeak but allows Crowley entrance with that slick tongue of his, any annoyance he had melting away as he tickles the roof of his mouth.

Crowley suckles the blonde’s lower lip before breathily chuckling, “Oh, my neighbor is a sweet woman but she has the worst timing.” He wedges his leg between thick thighs, knee provocatively caressing Aziraphale’s bulge. “Thwarted my plan of having my way with you the whole trip up.”

The blonde grapples onto Crowley’s biceps, his dick stirring with interest again at the firm pressure. “Oh, Crowley, you devilish thing you,” he reprimands with a keen.

“Your ‘devilish thing’,” he reminds boastfully, smooching the tip of his nose.

“That you are, my darling,” he confirms, rubbing their cheeks together. “That you are…”

The elevator comes to a halt, having reached the top floor already. When the doors open again, Crowley withdraws a bit before promptly intertwining his hand with Aziraphale’s. “Seems we’re just going to have to take our business elsewhere,” he suggests impishly as he guides him out.

As they walk down the dim hallway together, there is an undeniable giddiness permeating the air; a pure sort of exhilaration that accompanies all new experiences. Aziraphale watches in amusement as Crowley excitedly fumbles with his keys, attempting to gain access to the wonderful promises that lie beyond the frosted glass. Once he finally manages to open it, it’s the bibliophile’s turn to pounce as he grabs Crowley by the lapels of his jacket and brings him in for a fervid kiss. The thespian reciprocates with the same enthusiasm, carefully walking backward to pull them past the threshold of the doorframe.

In the darkness of his flat, Crowley’s hand aimlessly searches for the light switch while still trying to keep their lips glued together. He has an internal moment of victory when the incandescent lights flicker on and he is now able to concentrate fully on Aziraphale.

However, his angel’s focus seems to lie elsewhere as his eyes survey his surroundings. “Oh. My. Your home is. Incredible,” he mumbles against persistent lips.

The thespian simply hums in acknowledgment, continuing to kiss Aziraphale senseless to keep his attention on the task at hand.

Ultimately, Aziraphale politely draws his mouth away despite Crowley instantly trying to chase after it. The bibliophile giggles as he places his index finger on the thespian’s cutely puckered lips. “Crowley, dear, before we resume, might I get a looksee around your place?”

“Aziraphaaale,” he complains grumpily, placing hasty kisses to the pale digit.

“Pleaaseee. I promise I’ll only take a moment.”

Crowley’s resolve immediately disintegrates at the sight of Aziraphale’s precious, little pout. He disgruntledly chuckles, “Jesus, you’re unlawfully adorable. It’s no wonder you have me wrapped around your little finger. So, if you want a tour of my humble abode then I have no choice but to oblige,” he says in mock exasperation.

Aziraphale joyfully crinkles his nose at him before nuzzling it on Crowley’s Adam’s apple. “Oh, thank you, my darling.” He squeezes him in a final hug before curiously venturing around the mysterious domain.

Much like Crowley, his flat is all sharp angles, dark colors, and extravagant décor. From the huge flat-screen TV to the sleek turntable perched on a mahogany stand crammed with records, the lounge is the pinnacle of luxury. Although, the most eye-catching thing for Aziraphale is the wall behind the bar lined with a couple dozen playbills mounted in pewter frames. As he inspects them more he realizes that they are all from the plays Crowley has performed in, organized in chronological order.

Crowley self-consciously rubs his cheek. “Pretty pretentious to have, I know.”

“Absolutely not,” Aziraphale says, scandalized at the notion. “I think it’s brilliant that you’ve kept them. It shows your entire journey as an actor. You even have your first role as… ah, peddler number one, I believe,” he recalls, plucking the trivia from his memory.

The thespian’s lips turn up, impressed that he remembered.

Once Aziraphale has dawdled about to his heart’s content, Crowley goes to open the door to the adjacent room. “Please file in an orderly fashion for our next stop,” he instructs, mimicking an overenthusiastic guide.

The bibliophile snorts lightly as he strolls into the new vicinity, the artificial lights of the city pouring in through the slits of the blinds. The room itself is more minimalistic than the living room, however, the stretch of grey walls and flooring is greatly contrasted by the gaudy office desk and chair in the middle. Actually, throne was a more accurate term for the seat.

“Oh good _Lord_, Crowley,” he chuckles, circumnavigating the ostentatious piece of furniture.

“What you don’t like it?” he asks as he hooks an arm on the backrest

“No, I didn’t say that,” he reassures kindly, running his hand over the intricate carving of one the lion head arms, opposite of where Crowley stood. “I think it suits you quite well, actually.”

Crowley gives him a charming smile as he leans forward. “…Y’know the best part about it is that it’s _very_ sturdy,” he insinuates. “Oh, can you imagine the fun we could have with that?”

Aziraphale’s eyes flutter at the implication; his mind flitting through all the promising possibilities… Perhaps, Crowley would tie him to the gilded frame; crimson restraints that’d match the fine upholstery, leaving him utterly vulnerable to his bidding. Maybe he would edge him until he was hoarse from begging or maybe he would wring his body dry of every last drop… Both options undeniably appetizing.

The bibliophile fiddles with the tassels of Crowley’s necktie to draw him closer but the thespian only allows their lips to barely brush. “We’ll store that idea for later, yeah?” He briskly tugs away, before pivoting on his boot heels. “Right now, we have a tour to continue.”

Aziraphale has to keep himself from grumbling audibly. After all, this was his idea but the strain in his trousers is getting considerably harder to ignore. He follows suit as Crowley strides to the far end of the room. “Now, I should warn you that these specimens aren’t accustomed to visitors so don’t expect them to behave.”

The bibliophile quirks an eyebrow at him. “Crowley, do you have a zoo that I don’t know about?”

The thespian cackles, “_No_, nothing like that. Although… you’ve given me something to consider.” He pushes the wall to open a divider to the next room. Once the lights are turned on Aziraphale’s eyes are met by lush, verdant fronds of varying shapes and sizes.

“Your houseplants,” Aziraphale exclaims excitedly as he canvasses through the path of potted ferns and ficuses. “My dear, they’re beautiful. I must say you were being modest when you mentioned them. You have an impressively green thumb!”

Crowley blushes, flattered that someone is appreciating the labors of his hobby.

His angel approaches the tiered herb basket hanging near the shaded window to examine the tiny sprouts poking out of the earthy soil. He kindly greets, “Why, hello there little ones. You were all seeds the last time I saw you. It seems like your owner has been giving you all the love and care you deserve.”

He smirks at the irony. “Course I have…” Although it falters a little when, from his periphery, he notices that his spider plant is looking a little droopy. He composes himself when Aziraphale turns to him with a cheery grin.

“Soon, they’ll be ready for that dinner I promised to cook you. Oh, that reminds me! I would like to get familiar with the kitchen if you don’t mind.”

“Down the hall to the left but you should go on without me,” he instructs, grabbing the water mister from its shelf. “Have to tend to a few of them.”

Aziraphale understandingly nods. “Right then. I’ll be back in a jiffy.”

Crowley waits until he scuttles away to scowl at the offending shrub. “You are so lucky I’m already one orgasm into the night or else you’d be pulp this second,” he hisses in a hushed tone, poking at a wilted leaf. He starts addressing the rest of the foliage as he aggressively sprays at them. “And don’t you _dare _think just because you all have a compassionate guest now that you can slack off,” he warns.

“Dear, did you say something,” Aziraphale calls out.

He gives them all a disapproving glare for good measures. “Just giving them their nightly pep talk,” he answers nonchalantly.

After Aziraphale finishes his circuit and Crowley has sufficiently threatened his plants, they return to the office hand-in-hand until they stand before the twinkling cityscape. A world so grand and teeming with life right below them yet in the sanctuary of Crowley’s home, only they seem to exist. Crowley hears Aziraphale let out a small, musing sigh before feeling him lay his head on his shoulder. He rests his chin on his soft locks and asks, “So what do you think, angel?”

“I think I’m exactly where I am meant to be, my dear…”

Crowley gently tucks his free hand under his angel’s chin to tilt his face in his direction. He gazes into the crystalline lakes of his eyes before placing a tender kiss on his forehead. “I think so too…” he agrees breathlessly, now pressing a kiss to the apple of Aziraphale’s cheek, pert with happiness. Finally, he hovers their smiling lips over each other until Aziraphale closes the gap.

The blonde slightly withdraws as he hints, “Crowley, dear… I do believe there’s still a part of your home that I am _itching_ to explore.”

Crowley’s laughter prickles his lips. “Ah, yes, how terribly rude of me to keep you waiting.” He snakes his arm around Aziraphale’s waist as he starts leading him toward the corridor. “To be fair… I’ve been saving the best for last,” he huskily whispers and Aziraphale can’t help but giggle childishly.

They make their way through yet another foggy paned door and enter into the darkness of the bedroom. Crowley decides to set the mood by setting the dimmer just enough so they won’t trip over themselves while still maintaining a cryptic atmosphere. It seems to have the intended effect as Aziraphale gapes at the majestic room before him, feeling as if he has stepped into the chamber of royalty. Before them was a baroque canopy bed equally as garish as the rest of the furniture in the flat. Red curtains tied off to each golden pillar to perfectly exhibit a king-sized mattress draped with a reversible, black and red duvet stacked with matching pillows. Lavishly comfortable and more importantly… enticingly spacious.

Aziraphale turns to face Crowley, taking both hands into his. “Oh, Crowley, I feel as if I’m in a storybook tale,” he exhales dreamily.

The thespian lifts Aziraphale’s hands up to his lips, daintily rubbing each of his knuckles. “’M glad, angel… You deserve to feel that way. You deserve to be spoiled rotten, Aziraphale, and… I wanna be the one to do that for you. Everything thing I have… The very air I breathe: it’s yours. Anything you want, I’ll give it to you without a second thought...” Spoken as sacred as a vow.

Aziraphale stares at him with misty eyes. “My dearest, you are so, so kind to me…” _It’s almost too much to bear sometimes_. He smothers down that thought as he snuggles closer, hands resting against Crowley’s chest, feeling his warmth… his very being palpitating against splayed fingers as their breathing sync together. “What if…” He bites his lip coyly, plucking up the courage to ask, “What if what I want is for you to fuck me into that ridiculously glorious bed of yours? Preferably… right now. Is that amenable?”

Such an innocent intonation for such a salacious request. Nevertheless, it makes that familiar liquid fire return to Crowley’s blood all the same. “Er, yeah, that can definitely be arranged,” he answers blithely with a laugh.

The bibliophile huffs out an apprehensive little laugh himself, relieved that his use of vulgar language wasn’t off-putting. “Splendid then,” he says blushingly, hands dipping below the dark fabric of his jacket; a subtle encouragement that Crowley grants as he helps shuck off the garment.

By the time they stand next to the bed, coats are strewn over the velvety bedroom bench, boots and brogues are kicked off somewhere on the bohemian rug and an expensive wristwatch, a pair of sunglasses and a gold pocket watch with its attached fob medal are rested safely on the nightstand. Meanwhile, the owners of said articles are currently a jumble of jittery energy, messy kisses, and dopey smiles as they try to work off more layers.

While slender fingers unfasten Aziraphale’s tartan bowtie and a few buttons at the collar, the thespian’s lips travel down to the bibliophile’s supple neck, flawless like freshly fallen snow… Well, that simply wouldn’t do.

Aziraphale’s head droops to the side, humming contently at the initial airy pecks and attentive lave of Crowley’s tongue. However, it is replaced by a throaty gasp as he feels the sting of teeth bearing down on flesh. “_Ah!_ Crowley,” he yelps, taken aback.

“Too much?” Crowley asks.

“N-no. I —“ he stutters, trying to compose words through his daze. The throbbing in his neck doing inexplicably wondrous things to him... Making him feel desired... _claimed_. Crowley soothes the reddening area with affectionate kisses until Aziraphale finally responds, “On the contrary, dear boy... I-I’d like it very much if you were to continue.” He senses the smug stretch of lips against his tender skin.

“Excellent,” he murmurs pleasantly before resuming his passionate assault.

Aziraphale tries to concentrate on unbuttoning Crowley’s shirt but it is proving difficult with lips and teeth latching onto him like a lamprey. “Crowley_, darling_,” he moans. “You’re driving me absolutely mad, my love.” His hands finally managing to access some of the searing skin of Crowley’s slim ribcage.

“Am I?” He examines the angry splotches forming on his angel’s creamy skin with a satisfied grin. _Much Better._ “That’s a shame,” he tuts. “Because I have so much planned for you, angel. I want to take my time with you.” Crowley kisses lazily along the trap muscle of his neck. “_Really_, savor you… Enjoy you as if you were a truffle; the fancy, homemade kind you bought me once from that sweet couple in that little shop near Piccadilly.” Aziraphale’s breath hitches as a nimble finger traces down the column of buttons on his tan vest. “Slowly peel away the crinkly, decorative wrapping hiding your delicacies. Of course, once I have appreciated every inch of you and, _mm_, indulged myself too, _then_ I’ll fuck you… Raw. Deep. _Languid_.” A button flicking open with each word. “Until you really lose your mind,” he purrs, undoing the rest of the attire and slinking it over his shoulders. “Would you like that, angel? Would you like me to make love to you like that?”

Crowley too could be a hopeless romantic when it pleased him or, in this case, when he wanted to please.

And, oh, was Aziraphale pleased as he quakes in Crowley’s arms, the front of his pants dampening rapidly. “Yes,” he whimpers openly. “Yes, dear, that’d be absolutely lovely. Please.”

Crowley sweetly takes his lips into his as he rubs between his shoulder blades to soothe his tremors. “Okay,” he coos. “It’s my turn to take care of you, angel.” The thespian gets to work on just that, uncovering more soft curves and ivory skin like the present Aziraphale is.

Once he’s stripped down to his undergarments, Aziraphale sits on the edge of the bed breathing shallowly as a now shirtless Crowley kneels before him. He observes in awe as Crowley waits on him, carefully unbuckling his garters from the swell of his calves and nibbling the newly exposed skin as he unfurls each patterned sock.

“Anathema really wasn’t kidding about your appreciation for tartan,” he teases.

Aziraphale clicks his tongue at him. “It’s stylish,” he defends.

He chuckles, nipping at a meaty calf causing the bibliophile to flinch with pleasure. “Only poking fun, angel,” he assures, nuzzling his ankle while he massages the ball of his bare foot.

Aziraphale lets out a gratified breath as lithe hands relieve the tension on each pad. “My, you do have skillful hands, dear boy. Makes me wonder what else they could do,” he comments suggestively.

Crowley grins widely as he places his foot back down onto the floor, palms gliding up each tibia to rest on Aziraphale’s knees, prettily bruised from his earlier reverence. “Oh, don’t you worry. You are about to find out,” he says seductively, emphasizing this by kneading his plush thighs. His fingers creep along the hem of white briefs until the bibliophile gives him an excited nod of approval. Crowley yanks off the attire already saturated with arousal, the sweet musk filling his nostrils. “Fuck, Aziraphale,” he rasps as his fingertips skate along his groin and around the trimmed thatches of hair above his bobbing cock.

Now completely exposed, Aziraphale fidgets restlessly under the thespian’s observant gaze and curious touches. He impatiently whines, “Crowley, please—” He shivers as clever fingers wrap around the base of his twitching member, a thumb sweeping over the sensitive skin of his bollocks.

Using the slick from his dribbling tip, Crowley pumps along the stout shaft, reveling in the girth and weight of it in his grasp. His free hand finds Aziraphale’s nape, drawing their foreheads together as he mutters, “Goddammit, angel, even your cock is perfect. I bet it’d fill me up so nicely too… The thickness stretching me open.” His hand then descends past the blonde down of his chest to circle his bellybutton with an index finger. “Don’t think I could get enough of it. I’d have to spear myself on it until I was coming ropes over this soft belly of yours.”

Aziraphale clutches at Crowley’s shoulders as he desperately thrusts into the cinch of his fist. Although, he all but cries when Crowley’s ministrations slow and he pulls his hand away to gluttonously lick away the smears of precum that were left behind.

Before Aziraphale has the chance, Crowley drowns an impending protest with another kiss. He pants, “As much as I like that idea, I made you a promise and I intend on keeping it.” He gives Aziraphale a chaste peck on the lips before he whispers, “Lay on the bed.” A kind suggestion more than a demand.

Still, the bibliophile is more than willing to oblige as he scrambles to rest on the mountain of pillows. Aziraphale attempts to make himself comfortable as he lays his hands on top of his stomach, trying to steady his heavy breathing. However, his anticipation only worsens as Crowley swiftly shimmies off the rest of his clothes; his prick on full alert again.

The thespian opens the top drawer of the nightstand, pulling out a bottle of lube and flashing Aziraphale a knowing wink as he gives it a little shake. He then crawls to join his overwrought angel, expectantly reclined against the lush bedding with parted lips and hopeful eyes, and sets the lubricant aside for the moment. As Crowley sprawls on top of Aziraphale, a shameless moan escape their lips; the press of their naked erections and hug of their bollocks so overwhelmingly… “_Perfect_,_”_ they think. A beautiful juxtaposition of plush mounds against harsh edges.

Aziraphale lets out a pleased sound, his fascinated hands wandering the expanse of warm, apricot skin. “My sweet, you are breathtaking. I’m afraid to say that this moment had crossed my mind quite often,” he admits, lips brushing appreciatively along a freckled shoulder.

“That makes two of us,” Crowley chuckles. Their lustful eyes meet again before the thespian leans down for another kiss, sweet and unhurried. “I love you,” he exhales.

Aziraphale smiles glowingly, as he rests a spread palm on the side of Crowley’s neck. “I love you too, dear.”

With that assurance, Crowley starts making good on his word, wriggling down Aziraphale’s body like a serpent on its belly, leaving no stone unturned as he does so. A suck to each puffy, coral nipple, playful tickles to his sides, love bites to his billowing tummy and the flank of his thighs. All appetizers to the main course once his mouth is flush against the warmth of Aziraphale’s pulsing cock.

Aziraphale keens in tandem with each peck trailing down from the tip all the way down to his balls and taint. He watches with wide eyes as Crowley reaches for the lube, popping it open to squeeze a dollop onto his hand. The bibliophile instinctively spreads his bent legs, ready to welcome the thespian’s service.

“Someone is eager,” he snickers, lathering up his fingers.

“M-more like starving,” he corrects in a high pitch as Crowley gnaws one of his glutes.

The thespian rapturously observes the flutter of Aziraphale’s hole and naughtily remarks, “I can see that.” The pad of his thumb traces the rim of the sensitive area. “Seems your greedy, little hole can’t wait to get stuffed.”

Aziraphale’s skin flares and more fluid trickles down his cock to pool at the crest of his pelvis. “You and that wicked tongue of yours,” he scolds with a gripe. His blood turns icy when Crowley glances up with a delighted, dark expression. _Oh, shit_…

“Oh no, angel, you have no idea how ‘wicked’ it can be,” he cautions with a shit-eating grin.

As Crowley ducks his head, Aziraphale jolts at the slip of tongue between his spread cheeks. “Oh, _shit_,” he trills, a hand flying to cover his mouth in a pathetic attempt to save face.

“Looks like my dirty mouth really is rubbing off on you. In more ways than one, I suppose,” he hums, kissing the pucker of muscle.

Aziraphale rolls his eyes, unimpressed by his joke. “Oh, ha, ha— _hah!_” Another firm stroke and a wet kiss. He helplessly sinks further into the sheets as Crowley continues to prod into him sloppily. “P-perhaps, I was hasty in my reprimand, dear.” His hands knot harder into the duvet as the plunges become deeper and more intrusive. “_Goodness_! I-I should have known already that I’m completely defenseless to all of your guiles—” That last word distorting into a strangled moan as a slickened finger enters him, all while Crowley continues to lick around the tight, quivering ring. By the time he’s filled by three fingers, Aziraphale is a writhing heap of desperation; lost in an ecstasy Bernini wishes he could capture. “Crowley,” he wheezes utterly wrecked. “I know this will sound tetchy but please do get a wiggle on. I might combust if I don’t have you inside you me this instant.

“Technically, I already am,” he titters, crooking his fingers upward to prove his point; the tip of his middle one barely teasing the fleshy bump inside.

“Oh, you know what I’m referring to,” he huffs. A groan rumbles out of his throat as Crowley rubs his prostrate directly.

“Can’t say I do, angel,” he says in faux confusion, biting his inner thigh. “You’re going have to be a little bit more...” Another press followed by a squeal. “Specific.”

Aziraphale glowers at him before taking a heaving breath. “Crowley. Anthony. Dearest love of my life...” He gently strokes the top of his head with a sweet smile. “I want you to take that gorgeous cock of yours and ram into my arse until you finish inside of me... Now,” he grits.

Crowley is sure he’s left a puddle on his sheets just with that statement alone. “Well, if you insist...” he smirks. In a flash, he’s lining his hardened cock with the bibliophile’s prepped entrance.

Aziraphale breathes out a tiny cry as the erect tip nudges its way in, his yearning body more than willing to comply. A lock made for a uniquely crafted key to secure itself snuggly within its tumbler.

Hot breaths mingle as Crowley situates himself fully, adoringly brushing away a few sweaty locks from Aziraphale’s beatific face. He puffs, “How are you holding up, angel?”

“_Good_. F-feel good! _Ah_! Amazing, actually,” he babbles as Crowley’s hips shift forward slightly.

Crowley growls at the contraction of Aziraphale’s walls with each leisurely buck. “I know what you mean. Just feels right, doesn’t it?” He cradles his face, giving his feathery brow a kiss. “You and me, like this. I-I know things were a little touch and go there but… you have me now. So long as you want it that way, you always will.”

Tears brim at the corner of Aziraphale’s eyes. He gingerly grasps one of Crowley’s wrist and sighs, “Of course, I want it that way— _O-oh, fuck!_” A sharper snap. “Y-you are so wonderful, Crowley. You treat me so well. I wouldn’t want it any other way.”

Crowley takes in the soft praises, mulls them deep within the valves of his heart, letting them fuel each purposeful thrust… “_Make this count,”_ he tells himself. He wants to make this special. He wants to ensure that Aziraphale knows how much he loves him. The thespian says this much, as best he can through fevered kisses.

As Crowley fucks him with more determination, Aziraphale sings his name like a hymn so melodious it could echo throughout the walls of a church. Which is fitting since Aziraphale feels as if he is on his way to reaching divine enlightenment. He is soaring high, past the stratosphere and beyond as stars flash before his eyes with each powerful strike Crowley delivers… But it is more than just stars Aziraphale is seeing. It is an entire galaxy of brilliant constellations and colorful, swirling nebulas. An infinite space of cosmic beauty yet Crowley still shines the brightest at the center of it all like a burning sun.

“Crowley, _mgh!_” His manicured nails rake along the length of Crowley’s defined spine. “Oh, Crowley, I-I’m so close!”

Crowley realizes one of Aziraphale’s hand is making a beeline between them and he quickly halts it by pinning it to the mattress. Blue eyes widen in shock as he slows his pace and grunts, “Wait.”

Aziraphale’s lips tremble in despair, hips rutting up to get some more friction on his cock. He sobs, “Oh, dear, please! I _need_— I won’t be able to come if I don’t—“

The redhead mildly shushes him, lacing their fingers together against the bed. “Don’t worry, angel. I’m going to let you come, okay, but I want to try something,” he explains calmly, kissing along his throat. “Is that alright with you?”

The bibliophile lets out a shuddery exhalation before inhaling and exhaling deeply to dampen his frenzy. “Yes,” he gulps with a curt nod. “Yes, my dear boy. I trust you.”

Crowley’s heart flutters at this… Trust… Such a precious gift he is being given. He gazes fondly at the dewy angel beneath him, steeping in frustration yet still willing to give him that privilege. Crowley tries to steady his own ragged voice as he begins, “We, unaccustomed to courage, exiles from delight live coiled in shells of loneliness…” Crowley leans in to breathe in his ear, “Until love leaves its high holy temple and comes into our sight to liberate us into life.” He observes in fascination as goosebumps form on fair skin and he gently sucks on his earlobe. “Love…”

Aziraphale whimpers as his eyes start to well, blurring his vision but, fortunately, Crowley is there to anchor him. The sultry tone of his voice sending an electric current to his aching cock.

“Love arrives and in its train come ecstasies, old memories of pleasure… ancient histories of pain,” he swallows thickly as he starts to rock against him again. “Y-yet if we are bold, love strikes away the chains of fear from our souls.”

Despite Crowley’s exertion, the poem streams smoothly like freshly sheered wool being spun for a beautiful tapestry. The verses making every part of the bibliophile tingle wildly. The drawl of each word paring open his soul, readying it to be displayed on a steel slab. Pain and pleasure becoming indistinguishable but Aziraphale doesn’t want it to end. “Please keep going,” he pleads, wrapping his unpinned arm around Crowley’s neck to hold him tighter.

Crowley huffs, “We are weaned from our timidity, in the flush of love’s light we dare be brave and suddenly we see that love costs all we are… and will ever be.” Amber and crystal meet as that final phrase is exhaled. “Yet it is only love which sets us free.”

The final push… The final word needed for Aziraphale to let out an abject wail as come splashes across both their abdomens. His quickened pulse roaring in his ears as he digs his heels into the dimples of Crowley’s back while the thespian continues to pound into him, frantically chasing his own pleasure. A glorious moment made even better when Crowley’s cock swells inside of him, filling Aziraphale with hot seed just the way he craved. If his body wasn’t so spent already he would’ve surely come again.

A strained groan reverberates through Crowley as the final spurts of his climax dwindle. Their combined haggard pants and gasps lingering in the air as they bask in their euphoria. However, Crowley is brought out of his stupor when he feels the body underneath him vibrating uncontrollably and sees tears tracking down Aziraphale’s cheeks. “A-angel?” He quickly scoops him into a hug. “Hey, hey, I’m here,” he hushes soothingly as he kisses the salty tracks away. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t’ve—“

Aziraphale shakes his head with a snivel, embracing him back. “N-no, love, don’t apologize. That was… magical.” He weepily giggles, “Apparently a tad much for my heart to handle but… I wouldn’t have changed a second of it… Thank you, Crowley”

The thespian lets out a sigh of relief, lovingly scratching Aziraphale’s scalp. “That’s all I wanted to hear, angel…”

-

In the steamy master bathroom, the pair relax in the rectangular, granite tub having washed away the stench of sweat and sex clinging to their skin and replacing it with the aromatic scent of lavender and rosemary. The only sounds in the room being their easy breathing, the muted popping of bubbles and the subtle splashes of tepid water as they settle their slack bodies together.

Aziraphale is comfortably slouched against Crowley’s chest as he lets himself be lulled by the massaging hands roaming his body. Meanwhile, Crowley is blissfully admiring the artwork he left on Aziraphale’s skin: violet blooms on porcelain just like an elegant tea set at the Ritz. “_Mine_” is the word that pops into the thespian’s mind as his fingers skid along the milky path from Aziraphale’s shoulder down to his hands rested on similarly marked thighs. _It was always meant to be him._

“Aziraphale.” Crowley gets a sleepy hum in response. “Can I ask you something?”

“Of course, dear boy.”

“Your letter tonight... you said you always knew how you felt about me but... was there a specific moment that you _really _realized it?”

Aziraphale doesn’t even hesitate with giving his mirthful answer. “Christmas at the diner." He shrugs, "Figures a book would be what made me sure I was head-over-heels for you.” He adjusts himself a bit on Crowley’s shoulder so he can look at him properly. “Why do you ask, love?”

He squeezes his hands a bit. “I guess being here with you... I think I figured out when it happened to me.”

“Ooh, do tell,” he says wiggling with excitement.

Crowley gives him a nervous smile and tentatively starts to recite, “‘Remember you are cherished by those who set their eyes upon you... You are cherished for more than just the characters you play. It is you and your passion, transcending the camouflage of thoughtfully sewn costumes and layers of rouge that makes watching you so extraordinary... You are special, Anthony J Crowley. To all your viewers...’”

“‘To me’,” Aziraphale repeats with him. “‘I hope you always hold that truth in your heart.’” He lifts an arm to tangle his fingers into wetted hair.

“Sincerely, A.Z. Fell,” he finishes.

“Crowley... you memorized my letters?” he asks, touched, as he twirls a fiery lock.

“Mhm, every single one... That was the last letter you sent before we met and even then... I think I knew I was in love.” He combs through Aziraphale’s matted happy trail. “Sounds a little impulsive I know but how could I not fall in love with you.” A kiss to his moist temple. “My guardian angel that came along and threw me off my equilibrium with only your words...” Crowley drones, “I was content with pretending to be someone other than myself but knowing someone was able to see past that. The fact someone was able to see _me_... it burrowed into this rusty shell of mine and never left.”

Aziraphale buries his face in the crook of Crowley’s neck, feeling the impending waterworks again. However, he manages to laugh through the lump in his throat. “You know, dear, I can’t take all the credit for that though. If it weren’t for Tracy, I wouldn’t have had the courage to send you that letter in the first place.”

“Really? Huh, well, I’m going to have to get a nifty fruit basket to thank her.” The thespian tilts his head down to flash him an awkward smile. “Actually, I have a bit of a confession myself then… Um, our ‘meet and greet’ wasn’t really my idea. Truth be told, I had no knowledge it was going to happen until after Anathema went to visit you.”

“What,” Aziraphale exclaims, mouth agape.

“Er, um, yeah,” he bumbles a little flustered at his reaction.

The bibliophile is suddenly racked by a fit of giggles, which alleviates the thespian. “Oh, my dear, you must have been absolutely mortified to have that sprung on you.”

“Oh, I was livid but…‘m glad that she meddled.” He cuddles him closer. “Not sure we would be here if she hadn’t.”

“No point in speculating now, darling. All that matters is that we’re here now…” Aziraphale strokes Crowley’s jaw. “It’s funny really, how things fall into place. Why it’s almost...“

“Ineffable?” Crowley wonders with a shy smile.

Aziraphale returns it before sealing their lips together; another pact… another testament to their unwavering love. He breathlessly whispers, “Yes, I suppose so…”

Indeed it was. For how can one possibly explain the intricacies of the universe and the events working together like cogs in a grandfather clock that lead up to a specific moment? A point in time where, tucked underneath waves of Egyptian cotton, a bibliophile and thespian can easily slip into the hazy world of sleep. That same realm they once believed was the only space they’d ever be able to hold each other bleeding into reality as dawn ascends over the horizon and they find themselves still entangled against one another. Gold and pink hues drenching their waking bodies, indicating a new beginning. A new day of the many to come... together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If your teeth ache and your loins are stirring just a smidge, then I have done my job >:3 Also, I firmly believe that Crowley would have a bed fit for a king (or queen). Also a moment of silent for Ms. Mona Lisa who was not gifted to Crowley by Leonardo di Vinci in this universe but was won at an auction instead
> 
> P.S. The poem Crowley recited is “Touched by an angel” by Maya Angelou. I feel like I desecrated it but it summed up this fic so perfectly I had to use it!
> 
> Up next: The epilogue


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A different bandstand scene...

Three years… Three years to the day to be more precise and already a lifetime of experiences were compressed into that time frame.

They spent breezy springs picnicking at St. James Park with heaps of cured meats, fine ports, and tasty desserts. Muggy summers wading in the refreshing brine of the sea and watching nearby boats lazily sail by as they ate shaved ice on the pier. Crisp autumns driving (usually above the speed limit) along desolate country roads with the windows rolled down just for the hell of it. Chilly winters cozily bundled together at the bookshop with cups of tea or cocoa while its owner narrated Tolstoy or Wilde or Williams.

They both kept up their end of the bargain and went to Edinburg and Glyndebourne together. They agreed a bit of musical culture never hurt anyone.

They went to see The Them perform in their independently produced school play about the British Inquisition. Crowley was very proud they took some of the pointers he gave them. He especially liked Adam’s conviction when he ordered the witches to be burned at the stake and Wensleydale begging to be spared. Aziraphale internally noted the other adults were a little less enthusiastic about that part but made no mention of this to the kids.

They went to escape rooms every few months with Sergeant Shadwell and Tracy. An idea that initially received resentful grumbling from both the medium and bibliophile’s significant others. However, once the grouchy men got into the spirit of them, they were usually the first to make a reservation for the next one.

They took a trip to Paris where they ate at Aziraphale’s favorite crêperie and took a selfie of themselves kissing under the Eiffel Tower. (At least, as close as they could get without the hordes of tourists getting into the view). Still, it was the first picture Crowley got framed for himself.

They had disagreements. Moments where Crowley was too stuck in his head and refused to reach for a gentle hand. Times where Aziraphale was fussier than usual and found even minor inconveniences irritating. Simple blips that were resolved with warm hugs and doting kisses laced with murmured apologies.

They left flowers for Aziraphale’s mother at her grave… and did the same once for Crowley’s; another scene in his life that needed closure.

They recently became godfathers to a beautiful baby girl named Artemis Pulsifer-Device, or Artie as everyone liked to endearingly call her. She had Newt’s eyes and unruly hair but Anathema’s complexion and her precocious smile that appeared whenever she tugged on the thespian’s hair or the bibliophile’s bowtie. And, no, Crowley did _not_ tear up the first time he got to hold her, thank you very much Aziraphale.

They loved and supported each other unconditionally, each and every day.

They continue to do so as they walk through the park with interlaced hands after their anniversary dinner. The rows of lamp posts along the path flickering on as the lilac twilight sky slowly fades to a sapphire blue above them.

“That restaurant was absolutely delightful, dear, thank you. I thought the sparklers on the _croquembouche_, in particular, were an excellent touch. Made things feel more festive,” Aziraphale concludes with a smile.

Crowley secretly thought it was tacky and drew unnecessary attention but instead of voicing this he simply grins and says, “Only the best for you, angel,” as he kisses his temple.

No matter how many times he’s heard them, Aziraphale still giggles helplessly at his loving words. “So, my dear, do you have any other surprises in store for me?” he wonders cheerfully

Crowley indeed did have a surprise, safely tucked away in his charcoal suit jacket.

Still, he smoothly answers, “Oh, you know me, thought we’d just wing it from here.” Crowley glances ahead of them, his lips turning upward at the sight of their destination. “In fact… I think an idea has presented itself already.”

Aziraphale follows his line of vision to see the old bandstand glowing up ahead before Crowley starts to pull him toward the structure. Once they’re standing underneath the cupola, the bibliophile notices a few Edison lights strung around it, illuminating the scene like an old-fashioned, romance movie. “Those are new,” he notes, giving the thespian a cheeky side-eye.

“Ah, yes, it seems they were provided by an electric company called A. Device and Co.,” he remarks casually. Although, it is very difficult to act indifferent when the lighting accentuates how dashing Aziraphale looks in his navy tuxedo and grey tweed vest. Turned out dark colors did, in fact, suit him. “Well, I suppose there is no point in wasting such a picturesque moment,” Crowley shrugs as he removes his tinted glasses, putting them into the breast pocket of his white dress shirt. “Care to dance?” he asks, offering the blonde his hand again with a chivalrous bow.

Aziraphale beams at him as he daintily takes it. “Of course, kind gentleman. Although, it seems the band has gone home for the night,” he points out jokingly.

“Not going to be a problem,” the thespian assures, plucking out his phone to scroll through one of his playlists before taking his pick. As Crowley stores it away in his back pocket, the rise of soft instrumentals and the honeyed voice of Vera Lynn drift through the brisk air.

_That certain night, the night we met, there was magic abroad in the air, there were angels dining at the Ritz, and a nightingale sang in Berkeley Square…_

“‘Winging it’, huh,” Aziraphale says with an amused quirk of his eyebrow.

“Shut up and dance,” Crowley laughs, pulling his smiling angel closer, resting his hand on a love handle while Aziraphale places his on a sharp shoulder as they begin to sway together.

_I may be right, I may be wrong, but I'm perfectly willing to swear that when you turned and smiled at me a nightingale sang in Berkeley Square._

Aziraphale hopelessly gazes at his lover’s blissful face, beautifully framed by wavy locks that had grown past his chin already. Falling madly in love all over again as their feet float weightlessly like they were among heaven’s most billowy clouds.

_The moon that lingered over London town, poor puzzled moon, he wore a frown. How could he know we two were so in love, the whole darn world seemed upside down?_

Crowley supports the base of Aziraphale’s back as he gently leads him into a dip and the bibliophile can’t wipe off the blushing smile plastered on his face.

_The streets of town were paved with stars, it was such a romantic affair._ _And as we kissed and said good-night, a nightingale sang in Berkeley Square…_

As the thespian pulls him up again, Aziraphale sweetly places a kiss onto his cheekbone. Crowley giggles as he spins him around so he’s hugging the bibliophile tightly from behind. “How did I get so lucky, Aziraphale?” he asks, barely above a whisper, before kissing behind his ear.

_…I still remember how you smiled and said, "Was that a dream or was it true?"_

“I think a lot about that too, dear boy,” he admits as they both vaguely rock from side-to-side. He shivers solely from Crowley resting his unmoving lips on the exposed part of his neck. “I’ve been doing a lot of thinking, actually…”

“Good thinking?” he mumbles against warm skin.

A small sigh passes Aziraphale’s lips as the actor starts to softly nibble him now. “Y-yes,” he titters, squeezing the hands tangled over his stomach. “For example… You know the first night we met, I mentioned that Annette was my favorite role that you played.”

Crowley hums at the recollection.

“Well… I think that has changed since then.”

In an amused tone, he wonders, “Oh? Dare I ask who has knocked poor Annette Dubois off her throne?”

Aziraphale begins to ramble, “Technically, speaking it’s not a role you have officially accepted. I suppose, in a biblical sense, you have _many _times but—"

“Angel,” he says laughingly to keep him from going on a tangent.

“Right to the heart of the matter…” He tries not to move restlessly as Crowley rests his chin on the crook of his neck. He manages a deep breath, soothed by the tender peck on his cheek. “I think my new favorite role is… my husband.” He feels Crowley tense before he gradually draws his face away from its perch.

_…And like an echo far away, a nightingale sang in Berkeley Square._

Crowley gulps as he notices that Aziraphale has gone pink in the ears. “Uh… Come again?” His nervous breath puffing the baby hairs on the back of his pale neck.

Aziraphale gently breaks free from the thespian’s hold as he turns to face his stunned expression. “My husband,” he repeats with more confidence.

_I know ‘cause I was there that night in Berkeley Square…_

“That’s… what I thought you said,” he states dumbly, eyes wider than potential roadkill.

Realizing that Crowley has blown a fuse, Aziraphale decides to drive the point home by kneeling down on one knee.

The thespian finally snaps out of it (sort of) as he murmurs, “Aziraphale, wuh…” He sputters awkwardly when the bibliophile starts to twist off the gold ring from his pinky before gingerly taking hold of Crowley’s left hand.

With that signature sheepish smile of his, Aziraphale warmly declares, “Anthony J. Crowley, you are the most extraordinary person that I’ve ever known... So, will you do me the honor of marrying me?”

Crowley’s mouth had fallen open, his mind blanking on what to say to his angel knelt before him, humility and love blindingly radiating from him. “Angel, I, er, uh,” he stammers before shaking his head a bit to focus. Once he finds his bearings, he starts his answer with, “First of all: yes.” However, he cuts Aziraphale off mid-grin as he blurts, “But on one condition.”

The bibliophile eagerly nods, awaiting his terms. He fondly observes Crowley swearing under his breath as he fumbles one-handedly with something in his jacket until, eventually, he pulls out the intended object. The thespian joins him on the concrete ground, presenting a black, velvety box and flicking it open with his thumb. Nestled inside is a black tungsten ring and at the center of the singular golden etched line are three white diamonds, sparkling brilliantly under the decorative lights.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale gasps as he gawks at the precious item.

The thespian gives him an apprehensive smile. “Will you marry me too, Aziraphale Felton?”

Aziraphale happily nods through the tears welling in his eyes. “Of course, I will, darling,” he accepts with a sniff as he wraps Crowley’s neck in a hug, adorably smushing their cheeks together.

Once the bibliophile releases him, the pair caringly slide their respective rings on their fingers before weaving their adorned hands together to admire the symbols of their impending union.

Two halves of the same coin…

Crowley’s attention is soon fixed on those beautiful, teary eyes that had captured him from the audience. He presses their forehead together as he lovingly cups Aziraphale’s ethereal face. “You know what, angel? I think this is going to be my favorite role too…”

** _The End_ **

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this is it… the end to one of my favorite fics I have written. It’s bittersweet but I don’t regret a second of it. I wouldn’t have been able to do it without all the loving support in this fandom that kept me going even through the rough patches in my life. Thank you to each and every one of you who has spoiled me with your lovely comments and kudos. From my silent readers to my more vocal supporters alike, thank you from the bottom of my heart for sticking around for the journey.  
Although I’m being sappy, I would like to assure you that I am still sticking around this wonderful fandom and have a few more GO fic ideas lined up. If you are interested please consider subscribing to get any future updates. And who knows, maybe in the future all the plays from this fic will get their own moment to shine. We shall see where life takes us my lovelies…
> 
> Much Love and Cheers to the World,  
Ruby
> 
> P.S. I am open to doing a little Q&A in the comments if you would like further elaboration or head canons from this AU. Okay, officially signing off for now :)

**Author's Note:**

> Open request, if this fic inspires any fan art I would love a link and I’d happily insert it into the story! 😃
> 
> -Ruby ❣️


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